


Big, Beautiful Words

by ctj



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-10-14 22:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10545734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ctj/pseuds/ctj
Summary: Promises never die; nobody knows that better than Army Commander / Queen-to-be Zelda. When her legion must call in a renowned stealth specialist to lead a rescue mission in the desert, she finds herself face-to-face with Link, an ex-lover whom she never expected (or wanted) to see again. Now, they both must bury the past in order to advance forward--but old flames burn bright, and the past has a way of rising from the ashes.





	1. I.i

 

Big, Beautiful Words

_by ctj_

_Devoted, you said, and Eternal, and Fervently Yours…_  
_so many big, beautiful words, warm whispers_  
_against the back of my neck that ran like water_  
_down the length of my spine and sank into my bones._  
_They dwelled there until my skin felt your promises_  
_so deeply that they flowed within me, flowed like vital_  
_chemicals that my body had left out at birth._

 _If you’d spoken of a ship just over the horizon,_  
_I’d have waited on the shore with a frozen heart and lungs_  
_for those crisp white sails, swollen with wind,_  
_to burst forth from the sea._

 _Big, beautiful words—that’s all they were._  
  
_I knew that, and I believed them anyway._

_Part I.i_

**_Her_ **

 

            _THE SUN, despite its splendor, refuses to be forgotten._ The horizon tries to fight it, a hazy golden strip against a sizzling blanket of blue, but the heat washes the faint line away with everything else in a blur of sand and sweat. The dry, weathered bluffs are dusted over with rocks and dry scrubs, and in the middle of it all—this sunburnt earth, this blistered desert—a lone figure lies flat on her stomach and peers out over the edge of a jagged cliff, a spyglass poking out from beneath her hood. For a long while, she merely breathes long, quiet breaths, observing the fringes of the desert, where the spires of a fortress glare back at her…

            She is jolted by a series of footsteps at her back, and then a low, rumbling voice.

            “Commander, I fear that you will fry like an egg if you remain out here much longer. These sands prey on wanderers—take it from somebody who knows.”

            The hooded figure draws up into a kneeling position, and in reply to the newcomer the pretty mouth under the hood curls into a smirk, its owner’s spyglass collapsing shut with a _click._

            “Did the desert burn you once, Kaepora?” she asks.

            “Like flames, Commander.”

            “But you survived.”

            “Clearly. I was very young, and I learned quickly. The unbridled sun makes for quick discipline.”

            “ _How_ did you survive?”

            “That,” he replies, “is a story for another time… Commander Zelda, I come bearing a message.”

            The hooded girl presses her lips tightly together. “From Impa?”

            “Who else?”

            Zelda rises slowly, brushing off sand as her long limbs unfold. Beneath the cloak that keeps out the sun, her Sheikah garb is unforgivably tight, with sweat pooling in every crevice. She tries desperately to adjust it, to make it somehow comfortable, knowing full well that it is futile, that there is no escape from this wretched heat. Beside her, she envies the older and more experienced Kaepora, whose Sheikah clothing is like a second skin. The arid desert gale, so hot and dry in the young commander’s face, seems not to touch her companion.

            “What is her message?” Zelda finally asks, rolling the spyglass between her palms. A nervous habit.

            “You are to meet her in your quarters as soon as possible,” Kaepora replies.

            “Do you know why?”

            “If I do, Commander, then I am ordered not to say.” There is a glimmer of amusement in his garnet-colored eyes, so full of life that they lend youth to a face that seems prematurely devoid of it, dark eyes that stand in stark contrast to the close-cropped, pearl-colored hair.

            “And here I thought that _I_ was the one in charge,” Zelda quips, but she does not fight it, not any more, not when there is an actual war to fight and she is meant to be leading it. With one last glance at the distant fortress, she begins to return to her camp—and stops when Kaepora does not follow. Turning, she sees him gazing out across the desert.

            “And what of you, soldier?” she asks the man peering out at the horizon. He turns and bows low.

            “I must take my leave of you now, Commander. I am off to scout the surrounding lands until dusk—or did you fail to notice that I was armed?” he jokes, raising his arms to reveal the twin knives at his hips. In the sun’s rays, they emit a deadly twinkle akin to the one in their bearer’s eyes.

            Zelda surprises herself with a full-fledged smile. “Only a true Sheikah could fool me so,” she teases, and it is only half a joke. Among the Sheikah, trickery is an infamous art.

            Kaepora laughs deeply and warmly, then bows again. “Gods guide you, Commander Zelda, Queen Regent, Hands of Hylia; I will see you again at evenfall.”

            The spyglass stills briefly enough for the commander to hold out an empty palm. “Good luck out there.”

            They clasp hands; where it is not bandaged, Kaepora’s skin is browned and leathery from the sun’s rays. “And to you.”

            When they have parted ways, Zelda begins her descent into the camp. It is a bustling array of crisp white tents organized neatly into rows, and an oasis of life in this overwhelmingly dead wasteland. Zelda’s Hylian soldiers shuffle about their midday tasks—sharpening swords, polishing armor, shaving—and stand duly at attention as she passes, bowing low when she comes close— _Your Majesty, Your Majesty._ Interspersed among them are her Sheikah soldiers, silent as shadows and lethal as quicksand. They, too, show their own form of respect as she passes, resting two fingers just beneath their right eye as if to wipe away a tear…

            At the center of the camp, a splendid white tent with azure trim towers above the rest—Zelda’s quarters. Banners flicker overhead in the sunlight. One bears the golden emblem of the royal family on a brilliant blue background; beside it, the Crying Eye of the Sheikah clan bleeds red on black.

            _The Eye did not always cry,_ Zelda recalls as she examines the inky banner of the royal family’s oldest allies. _The teardrop was added when the Sheikah betrayed the royal family to their enemies… treason,_ she thinks darkly, _the most evil crime._

She stops outside the tent just long enough to relish in her momentary solitude—it is hard to come by these days—and then pulls back the flap of her tent and ducks into the cool darkness.      An oil lamp is burning atop a round table in the center of the tent, where a tall and slender figure bows over a map. The woman glances up upon Zelda’s entrance, sweeping a long strand of white-blond hair behind a muscular shoulder. Her eyes, vibrantly red and almost feline in the intensity of their angle, scrutinize the princess deeply. Zelda feels her cheeks go pink with irritation.

            “I received your summons,” Zelda says stiffly. She stands with her best posture, shoulders thrust back. It is something she does subconsciously these days, rooted in a feeling of rigidity around Impa that she can’t quite explain.

            Impa hesitates. Clicks her tongue. Then, finally, she stands at full height. Her long limbs move gracefully; her silence is elegant. In the flickering light of the lantern, she is like a flame herself—or, Zelda thinks, perhaps more accurately, she is not like a flame, but rather like the shadow that flames throw against a wall. Her presence is inspiring, and it is fatal.

            “Yes,” she finally affirms. “That I did. Remove your hood, Zelda.”

            _Zelda._ Impa references the commander and queen regent by her first name—and is one of the few who can get away with it.

            _There has only been one other who ever called me Zelda,_ the commander recalls almost wistfully, and her stomach does a painful somersault, a pain that she has yet to grow numb to. _But he was part of a different life,_ she reminds herself, as if it will change anything. _That was seven years ago—seven years_ … _or seven lifetimes?_

“Zelda. _Remove your hood._ ”

            Obedient to a fault, the commander, commanded only by one— _this_ one—does as she is told, and her hood falls back to reveal lovely but sunburnt features. The pretty eyes and lips are like a doll’s, but the brows, long and dark, betray a rough edge to her nature that does not befit the poise of her features. And in spite of her garb and years of training, it is clear with her hood down that the commander is no Sheikah—her skin is too pale, her hair too dark, her eyes too blue.

            “Much better,” Impa decides, and beckons Zelda in her direction. “Come and take a look; we need to talk. Desperately.”

            The map depicts the desert in all of its desolate glory. _Gerudo Valley_ is inscribed elegantly in the cartographer’s hand, the text hovering over rolling dunes that crash like waves into a sudden range of jagged, unforgiving bluffs. Among these bluffs, two camps are clearly labeled, one in red ink— _Gerudo Fortress_ —and the other, _Hylian Camp_ , in blue. The Hylian camp is draped over the side of a mountain as it arcs towards high ground and the sky. Many miles away, visible only with the help of a lens, the impenetrable (or so it seems) Gerudo Fortress is isolated by plateaus on all sides.

            “What is it you wish to discuss, Impa?” Zelda finally asks, looking into the slightly older woman’s face.

            “For many months now, we have tried—and failed—to gain entry into the Gerudo Fortress, but none of our attempts have worked.”

            “And you think that I haven’t noticed?” Zelda snaps. “If anything, I know better than you. I was at the vanguard of the last attack; we had to fall back before we even got within miles of the walls. They spotted us coming from the hilltops—even when we tried again that night, it was like they could hear us coming…there is no fooling them, Impa. I know that now.”

            The slightly older woman is silent for a moment, and still as stone. When she speaks, her deep voice is unwavering.

            “So we will never be able to take them by surprise.”

            “To attack the fortress head-on would be foolish,” Zelda acknowledges, “and yet we cannot wait for them to come to us. Altitude is our only advantage; beyond that, we have nothing to defend. We must work our way past their defenses somehow; we must… oh… attack from the inside… but that could take a miracle,” she admits.

            Impa’s eyes are narrow. “I would sooner rely on a lame racehorse than on miracles,” she finally says, and when she speaks, her voice is cold and hushed as frost. Then she turns away, her long hair falling in her face and hiding her expression. “This whole damn war is a fool’s fight,” she finally states. “To die fighting for this barren wasteland, all in the name of religious fanaticism… I cannot imagine a more pointless death.” She pauses. “Stop doing that.”

            Zelda glances down at her hands, where she has begun to roll the spyglass between them again. With a huff, she slips it into her belt and curls her fingers tight against her palm. A fresh pool of anger is boiling in the pit of her stomach.

            “Well if we don’t protect the Triforce from the desert king, then who will?!” she snaps. Impa’s head whips upward, eyes flickering dangerously.

            “We have fought for four long years, Zelda, and to no avail—we have lost more brave men and women in the name of this relic than would ever have been lost at the desert king’s hands! Half of this camp thinks that you’re a madwoman, and the other half just hasn’t been here long enough to find that out.”

            “A madwoman, you say?”

            “We should surrender now, before we are left with nothing but shame! Or worse—before we lose _you_.”

            Impa stretches out a hand, and it only takes the brush of her fingertips for Zelda to recoil as if she has been poisoned.

            “Speak of surrender again and I will see you dismissed from my service,” Zelda threatens.

            “You would have little luck—I swore to your father and mother that I would protect you from the day you were born.”

            “My parents are dead,” Zelda reminds Impa. “They took your promise with them to the grave.”

            _“Promises,”_ Impa insists, _“never die.”_

            A horrible memory floods Zelda’s mind—suddenly, she is submerged in it, she is drowning—

            _“YOU PROMISED! YOU PROMISED!”  
            He is being dragged away from her, his hair matted down with sweat, tears brimming in his swollen blue eyes. There is fresh blood on his face—he thrashes in the grasp of the guards—she can almost feel his heart pounding, beating and beating as though to set itself free of his ribcage—and he is screaming, he is howling—“YOU BROKE YOUR PROMISE!”_

She shakes herself free of the vision, breathing hard. Her fists close, then open again.

            “So then, Impa,” she utters, “it appears we shall agree to disagree.” She holds her head upright. There is no crown atop it, and she is very conscious of that fact. She tries not to let it bother her. “If you have called me here to convince me to surrender,” she continues, “then I fear you are wasting your breath. It has been four years, and we have made it this far—we are mere miles away from the enemy capital. To surrender now would be to stop a racehorse with the finish line in sight.”

            “This is not gambling, Zelda!” Impa insists, slamming her hand on the tabletop. “We have no way of winning! This is nothing but reckless!”

            “ _This_ ,” Zelda clarifies, “is a holy war.”

            Impa’s mouth tightens into a firm line. “ _Your_ holy war,” she finally grunts.

            “ _Yes,_ ” Zelda breathes, leaning in close. _“Mine.”_

There is a long, _long_ period of silence, and then Impa draws back with a sigh. “I still think—”

            _“TAKE COVER!”_ an urgent voice sounds from outside, muffled by a building gale. _“TAKE COVER! EVERYBODY TAKE COVER!”_

            Zelda recognizes the cry immediately—it is so routine, after months in the desert, so ordinary that she barely bats an eyelash. _A sandstorm._ She dashes to the opening of the tent and throws the flap open just in time to see a massive shadow overtake the sun—and her heart stops. This is like no sandstorm she’s ever seen before…

            _It’s monstrous._

“TAKE COVER!” a man continues to cry, more panicked than before as the storm only continues to grow in size. A colossal shadow, the storm blocks out any remaining light, and the winds, unforgivably powerful, snap the cords holding down a nearby tent. Zelda watches as the white tent cover takes flight and disappears into the darkness, like an angel succumbing to the void.

            _This is dangerous,_ she realizes, the screams only growing in volume. And that’s when it hits her. _Kaepora._

She’s taken two steps out into the storm when Impa lunges forward and grasps her around the waist, dragging her back into the tent and drawing the flaps shut. The wind, muffled now, only howls harder, and the walls of the tent shake violently all around them.

            “WE HAVE TO GO OUT THERE!” Zelda shouts over the growing chaos. “Kaepora is out there—he’s out scouting—Impa, he’ll die of exposure in this storm!” She tries to break free, but Impa is the stronger one, and her grip is like steel.

            “Kaepora can take care of himself, Zelda! You cannot go out there—you are invaluable!”

            The commander only continues to struggle. “Impa, listen to me—Impa—LISTEN TO ME! IMPA, HE’LL DIE! HE’LL DIE!”

            But even as she struggles, even as she screams, she knows it is fruitless. Kaepora, her friend, Kaepora, whom she loves…

            _No…_ she thinks, and her heart gives an awful shudder, one that resonates throughout her entire core and escapes through her skin. Suddenly drained, she draws still in Impa’s arms.

            “He’ll die,” she repeats one last time in no more than a whisper—a horrid realization, a vile truth—“he’ll die… and for what?”

            When the storm dies down and Zelda emerges squinting into the sunlight, the camp is still intact—but Kaepora, her soldiers inform her, is nowhere to be found.

 

**_Him_ **

“Mr. Link.”

            He stops sharpening his sword just long enough to look up. Silent, expectant. There is a sharpness in his glance that is like the point of a knife. When the slave boy in the doorway remains silent, he grows impatient.

            “Can I help you?”

            “It’s just…”

            “Don’t twiddle your thumbs like that, Fletcher. Put a broom between them if you must.”

            “I’m sorry, it’s just—”

            “—don’t apologize—”

            “—sir, I only meant that—”

            “—and don’t call me sir—”

            “Mr. Link, pray let me speak!” the boy cries. Link smiles and leans back, arms crossed.

            “Now _that’s_ more like it,” he says with a broad smile. “Alright, then. I’m listening.” He doesn’t dislike the boy; he only wants to instill some fight in him.

            “I just… wanted to ask you something.”

            Link raises a single eyebrow—a talent of his. “Go on.”

            Fletcher, rosy-cheeked and barely scratching the surface of adolescence, steps forward timidly. “I overheard you talking to the lieutenant captain this morning,” he admits, wringing his hands together again. He is trembling, and massive splotches of sweat are seeping out from his underarms. Gods, he _is_ nervous.

            “And what did you hear?” Link asks, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. Beside him, the sword lies forgotten.

            “Only that on your last mission, you saw the desert king with your own eyes,” Fletcher admits. “I’m sorry!” he squeaks immediately. “I’m sorry for eavesdropping—I was meant to be mopping but I just—I just—”

            “Get it out, Fletcher.”

            “Is it… true?” the boy whispers. “Did you… did you truly see King Ganondorf?”

            Link’s expression relaxes into a smile and he beckons the boy forward. “Come here,” he says. “Closer.”

            When the boy is close enough that Link can make out the odor of sweat, he leans in close. “I didn’t just see him, Fletcher,” he whispers. “I _spoke_ to him.”

            Fletcher goes pallid. _“How?”_

Link chuckles quietly. “Well, Fletcher, they don’t call me the _Creeping Beast_ for nothing. I am a stealth specialist, after all. I can speak to a man face-to-face without him realizing I’m his enemy. That is my special talent.”

            “Even more than sneaking into castles and all that?”

            “Into castles—and back out again. That’s the most important part.”

            “Where’d you learn to sneak so good?”

            “ _Well,_ Fletcher. I sneak _well._ As for sneaking, it’s…” Link pauses. For half a heartbeat, he is surrounded by white castle walls, a vine crawling up one of them, a vine to _her_ window—“…an old pastime,” he finishes. The castle walls vanish, and he is back in the armory at Fort Courage, Fletcher gaping at him openly, the shame gone from his expression.

            “But King Ganondorf…” the boy continues.

            “Smart as a whip,” Link promises Fletcher, “and he stings like one, too.” He leans back in his chair, a rickety wooden thing that he dragged over to the grindstone he’s now forgotten.

            “Was he scary?”

            Link considers. “He didn’t scare me,” he finally decides.

            “Does _anything_ scare you?” the boy asks in utter disbelief, causing Link to falter.

            “Once… yes, I was scared of something happening once.”

            “What do you mean, _once_? What were you scared of?”

            “It doesn’t matter what I was scared of. What matters is that I’m not scared of it anymore.” Link stands while he speaks and takes up his freshly sharpened, suddenly remembered sword. He tests its weight in his hand, admiring the glint of the blade in the pale light.

            Fletcher’s gaze is quizzical. “Because you realized it wasn’t going to happen?”

            “No. Because it _did_ happen,” Link answers, and swings the sword with a sudden _whoosh._ To his amusement, Fletcher ducks, even though he swung in the other direction. He smirks at the boy and twirls the sword in his hand as if it is weightless. Smiling down at Fletcher, he offers him the pommel of the sword, which the boy rejects.

            “I—I can’t,” he says timidly. “I’m just a slave.”

            Link hesitates to answer. What is he supposed to say in reply? With a sigh, he sheathes the sword in the scabbard at his belt. “Take care of yourself, Fletcher,” he finally says, and makes for the door. The boy’s jaw is agape.

            “Where are you going?” he asks. Link is strolling away from him—out of the door and down the corridor. The narrow windows cast long stripes of white light down his torso.

            “Wherever the captain sends me next,” he answers nonchalantly. “I do as I’m told. So do you. That’s how we get by.” He pauses, and turns. “Let me tell you a secret, Fletcher,” he says, and kneels down. The boy comes close, and Link gazes up at the plump, innocent face. For a brief second, he considers saying nothing and telling the boy to forget about it. What he is about to say, it almost doesn’t seem fair—but then again, is anything?

            He rests a hand on the boy’s shoulder; it tremors beneath his fingertips.

            “I’m a slave, too," Link says. Fletcher’s lips form a little _o._

“A slave to what?”

            Link stands. “To memory,” he replies. The castle walls flash into his mind again—the vines, crawling up the tower—her window—her face, white as the moon behind the glass, pushing it open, stretching out her warm bare arms and pulling him into that beloved darkness…

            “But that’s not _real_ slavery,” Fletcher insists, and Link’s face darkens.

            “At least,” he reasons, “you didn’t put the chains on yourself.”

 


	2. I.ii

_Part I.ii_

****

**_Her_ **

****

“You can’t mourn him forever, Zelda. Have some sense. It has been nearly a week,” Impa insists. Beside her, Zelda stands in flickering torchlight, gazing out at the desert sands. Tonight, they glow under a bulbous full moon.

            “Kaepora was our best soldier,” she insists. “He was smarter than any of us, and more loyal than all the others put together.”

            “Loyalty is not the sort of thing that can be measured, Zelda.”

            “But it can be tested.” She turns towards Impa, and there is desperation in her eyes. “We _must_ send out a party, Impa. If _I_ had gone missing, Kaepora would have searched for me.”

            “Yes, Zelda, he would have, because you are the _queen regent,_ and protecting you is the sworn duty of all Sheikah.”

            Zelda grapples for a response, but none comes to her. Pained, she turns back towards the horizon.

            “Please,” Impa implores, “either you must let this incident go and return to the task at hand, or you must lay down your arms and surrender.”

            Zelda’s slender hands clench into fists. “I would never surrender,” she vows, and raises her eyes to the sky. “You are right, of course. Very well. Tomorrow, we will call together the council and discuss a course of action.”

            Impa gives in to momentary tenderness. “Now, _that_ is the princess I raised to be queen.”

            “Queen _regent_ ,” Zelda reminds her, stubborn as ever. “I will take up my crown when I know that my kingdom is safe— _aah!”_ she screeches as an arrow whizzes past her head. It lodges in a wooden post just behind her, and she glances up just in time to see a human silhouette disappear into the darkness. She lunges after the figure immediately, but Impa grasps her wrist and stops her.

            “Zelda—Zelda, no! Stay—look—look at the arrow.”

            Slowly, reluctantly, Zelda pivots to examine the arrow. It is decorated with three red arrows. _A Gerudo arrow_ , she realizes, and when she looks closer, she sees that there is a message attached to the shaft. Eyes widening, she removes the message, a little scroll, and devours its contents by torchlight. She can feel Impa’s eyes on her, and her heart drops into her stomach as she speaks.        

            _“Gods_ ,” she whispers, and raises her gaze to meet her companion’s. “Impa… the council meeting cannot wait. We must call the council together— _now._ ”

…

 

            “So you’re telling me,” an incredulous Sheikah hisses, “that Kaepora is _alive?_ ”

            “The enemy kidnapped him when he got caught in the sandstorm,” Zelda explains, spreading the Gerudo message out on the round table in her quarters. Along with Impa, the council consists of two Sheikah and three knights. “Now, they’re holding him ransom.”

            “Ransom… _where?”_

“In the Fortress,” Zelda replies. “They must know how valuable he is to Hyrule.”

            “Why do you say that, Commander?” a knight asks.

            “Because they will only return him to us in the event of our surrender,” she replies listlessly. “But seeing as that is not an option—”

            “—Why not?!” one of the knights interjects. “We’ve been melting in this hell of a desert for _months_ now, Commander—”

            “Hold your tongue, Sir Paragrant!” Impa scolds. “You are not to address the commander like that under any circumstances, understood?”

            Sir Paragrant grinds his jaw, eyes flickering furiously. Without a word, he returns rigidly to his seat, fists clenched under the table.

            “Surrender,” Zelda repeats coldly, “is not an option. Do I make myself clear?”

            Murmurs of agreement flit around the table, and Zelda takes a deep breath, focusing for just a moment on her posture. _I must not allow my emotions to get the better of me,_ she reminds herself. _I am the Hands of Hylia. I must do her work. I must not falter. I must not feel. Feeling is failure. Failure is unforgivable._

“Commander… if failure is not an option,” a Sheikah speaks up gently, “then what do you suggest as an alternative? The Fortress is impenetrable; none of our party has a prayer of breaking in and extracting Kaepora.”

            “If I may impart,” a knight interrupts, “this might be just the wake-up call we’ve been needing.” He turns to the queen regent. “Commander, I’ve been thinking for weeks now that it is high time we call in a specialist.”

            Zelda raises a single eyebrow—a quirk that she picked up during her teenage years, though she can’t quite recall when, or where. “To whom are you referring?”

            “He’s a stealth specialist, Commander. The men used to talk about him in the barracks, even before we came to the desert. Nobody knows his name—they just call him the Creeping Beast because he’s an expert at infiltration. They say he knows how to wield every weapon, too, with all the discreetness of a Sheikah. Silent warfare—that is his art.”

            Impa is unsure. “He sounds like nothing more than a rumor. How do you know we can trust this man?”

            “We hired him just two weeks before I left the barracks to join your ranks. We needed to slit the throat of an enemy commander; it was done in the blink of an eye. How he did it… well, we cannot say. We thought the enemy camp utterly unable to be breached, but not only did he enter—he exited as well, and in one piece.”

            “He sounds too good to be true,” Zelda cuts in. “Have you met him?”

            “Once,” the knight returns.

            “And what was he like?”

            “He was…” the knight stops to ponder. “Well, I expected something like a shadow, but… he was just a man.”   

            “You’re both mad,” Sir Paragrant cuts in. Zelda turns an eye on him.

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “I am a member of this council, too—well, here is my counsel! What will a specialist like that _cost?!”_ the knight inquires. “Why spend a fortune on one man when for the same price we can hire five thousand and end this war!”

            “And let them slit Kaepora’s throat the moment we’re in eyeshot?” Zelda replies. “Storming the fortress won’t win us this war.”

            “With five thousand more men, it might!” the man argues.

            “And where are we going to find five thousand men?” Impa imparts. “Hiding in the bushes?”

            “Hyrule is home to many valorous men, however common. Our land is shriveling under the weight of war. Men want it to end, and will raise their swords if you call!”

            “And then turn right around at the first sight of this desert? These sands are no home for farm boys and hedge knights,” Zelda argues.

            “You don’t know the Hyruleans like I do—I lived among them for years as a commoner! You speak of them as if they are the vermin of the earth—though perhaps that is how they have always looked from your high throne.”

            “Hold your tongue, Sir!” Impa cries.

            “I only speak for the people—”

            “—Whom I love,” Zelda interjects. “I will not sacrifice them and Kaepora both.”

            “Who says it is your sacrifice to make?” Paragrant mutters, and the tent falls silent. After a long moment, he rises. “I can see that you have already made your decision, but I cannot be a part of it. Call in this specialist if you so choose, but if he should not turn out to be all that you hoped, remember that there are scores of men who’d have joined our forces with honor.” Without another word, he exits the tent. Zelda’s heart is beating from the pit of her stomach.

            “He will not listen to me—nor I to him. Call in the Creeping Beast. This, I command.”

           

 

**_Him_ **

 

            At dinner, Link is the only one that doesn’t drink. The other soldiers call endlessly upon the slaves to deliver ale so they can drink deeply and greedily of it. Belching and guffawing, they crack jokes like whips and beckon the younger soldiers forth to be laughed at. Tonight, their victim is an ex-farm boy who, as they have recently discovered, is illiterate.

            “Do you know what _these_ are?!” a striking but snide soldier chuckles, pointing at a series of Hylian characters inscribed across a tankard. “These are called _letters_. You _read_ them. Sometimes even _write_ them—bet you didn’t know that, did you, _farm boy_?!”

            The boy is silent.

            “Here, take a stab at it! Try and read it—what does it say, farm boy?”

            “Go to hell,” he grumbles, and drinks only to make a sour face at the taste.

            The soldier smirks. “Actually, it says _Faron Province Brewing Company,_ but you wouldn’t know that, would you?”

            “ _Go to hell_.”

            “Here, let’s try this one.” The soldier pulls a badge out of his pocket and proffers it. The title _COMMANDER_ gleams in the torchlight. “What does it say?”

            “ _GO TO HELL!”_ The moment that the boy rockets to his feet, there are half a dozen soldiers yanking him back onto his chair. For a second he thrashes, but when he realizes that it will get him nowhere, he grows still. The soldiers explode into another fit of laughter.

            “Just leave him alone,” Link sighs, standing up.

            “Well, I’ll be damned. This one knows how to talk after all!” the snide soldier remarks. Link gets made fun of plenty for being the quiet one, but could care less. _If that’s all that they’ve got on me, then I’m doing better than anyone else._ With a huff, he pivots and strides away from the men at the table. Their eyes, watching him, sting his skin with their heat. He could turn around and match them with his own steel gaze, but something keeps him moving forward. He needs to be in the open air.

            He exits the mess hall and steps into the cool night air. The moon, a waning gibbous, illuminates the treetops stretching into infinity before him, and after a long breath he leaves the massive shadow of the hall and approaches the forest. The grass crunches underfoot; he has only made it two or three steps before he hears that same crunching approach him, louder and louder as somebody draws near. Turning, he sees the farm boy pacing in his direction, freezing as he falls underneath Link’s gaze.

            “Sorry—just wanted to say thank you is all, Sir.”

            Link smirks. “You don’t have to call me Sir,” he informs him. “I’m a specialist; that doesn’t make me a knight.”

            “If you say so, S—I mean, um…” He laughs nervously and scratches the back of his neck, tousling his busy, sand-colored hair with the motion. It stirs something in Link’s memory—something of himself, of the person he was, once, before the war, before his training… before…

            _“A farm boy?” she whispers with a giggle like running water. “Here in the gardens of Hyrule Castle?”_

_He spreads his arms wide. “That’s me.”_

_“But who let you in?!”_

_“Who said anybody let me in?” he counters, and grins._

_“So you’re a miscreant,” she concludes, though still her lips are upturned at their pretty corners._

_“A miscreant—maybe—but it’s for a good cause.”_

_“How good?”_

_“The very best.”_

_She leans in close. Behind her, a rosebush flutters ever so gently in the wind’s breath, the vibrant pink petals_ _inflamed with the onset of spring. “Tell me,” she begs._

_He doesn’t even hesitate, doesn’t even stop to say, should I?_

_“Well, I will tell the honest truth—I simply had to glimpse Hyrule’s princess with my own eyes… and can you blame me?” he continues when her eyes go wide. “She is more lovely than I could possibly have imagined!” He reaches for her hand; she snatches it away as though to put him off, but her expression betrays her; she is blushing madly, pinker even than the roses that frame her._

_“Those simply are not grounds to be breaking into castle gardens,” she insists, drawing her posture upright. Even the tips of her pointed ears are pink, and she fidgets nervously with her crown a little bit. “I think that any decent princess would agree.”_

_“But are_ you _a decent princess?”_

_Her big eyes are still wide, their color a frosted blue, like a flash of sun against cracked ice. They are pale, so pale in contrast with her deep brown locks. Indignant, she throws her shoulders back—or perhaps thrusts out her chest, he realizes, and something sparks within him._

_“Well, I am a princess, anyway, and there are no indecent princesses!” she claims._

_“Oh, a princess, are you…?” he flirts, leaning forward. “What if I do… this!” And he snatches her tiara and holds it high above her head. Gasping, she reaches for it._

_“Give it back!” she hisses—even in shock, she keeps her voice low, and that is when he realizes that she, too, does not want to be seen; she wants to retain the privacy that is achieved in this corner of the gardens, obscured by tall, rose-spotted hedges and white marble walls. She wants to be alone with the handsome farm boy, the farm boy who snuck in and claimed it was all for her, all for her beauty…_

_“What?” he laughs. His voice, too, does not rise above a whisper. “A second ago you were a princess—now you are crownless, and simply a girl! I think I like you much better this way.”_

_Her hand, hovering in midair, stills. “Who are you, truly?” she asks suddenly, disbelievingly. “Who really let you in?”_

_“I am a farm boy,” he repeats, “of the castle-climbing variety.”_

_Contemplative, she draws close. “Can you climb tower walls?” she asks, her lidded eyes scanning him. He just laughs._

_“Naturally.”_

_“Can you climb_ my _tower wall?” she presses, and adds, in a breath like a hot flame, “tonight?”_

_Somewhere between his ribs, cinders erupt into sparks. Heat snakes through his veins. “Princess, I—”_

_“—I thought I wasn’t a princess?”_

_The spike of wit drives him to silence. She is entirely still, waiting._

_“Ah… an apt observation,” he remarks._ Don’t stumble over your words, you great fool, _he thinks, though his heart has started to race. Who is this woman? He had expected a pure and innocent princess, but it appears he’s discovered somebody else. Gods, she is enticing—his heart hammers—this is surreal…_

_Before he can answer, her breath is mingling with his. “It’s at the end of the northwest wing—there’s a big vine crawling up the side. The window will be open. I’ll be waiting…”_

_And then in a swirl of satin she is gone from the garden, swaying her hips as she walks. The glint of the sun in her long auburn hair is the last thing he sees, and for a long time afterwards, even when he has left the castle, even when he is back in his quarters in Castle Town, all he can think is,_ Should I?

_Night falls, stars splatter across the inky sky, and Link, alone in the threadbare blanket supplied by the local inn, shivers. Across the room, his companion—an older ranch hand who is here with Link to deliver milk—is snoring loudly. Will he notice if Link leaves? Will he question his whereabouts? What if Link is caught—what if it is a ruse—what if he doesn’t return?_

_Another shiver wracks him, and he imagines the warm arms of the beautiful woman who offered them—and not just her arms, but everything, everything…_

_Even as he lies there, he can feel a longing welling up within him, a stirring in the pit of his stomach that chills and warms his body at the same time._ Should I? Should I?

_He thinks of her again—of the piercing blue of her eyes, the sting of her clever tongue, the sweet smell of her breath—and a craving so powerful wells up within him that he cannot fight it, and slowly, noiselessly, he rises, sets his bare feet against the cold floorboards, prays they don’t squeak, prays for a shroud of silence to escort him into her waiting arms…_

After all, _he thinks,_ What’s the worst that can happen?

            _It’s only for one night…_

…

 

            The following morning, he is in the lieutenant captain’s quarters. There is a freshly-opened letter on the commander’s desk, marked as urgent mail, the wax seal—undone, now—bearing the symbol of the Crying Eye.

            “I’m sending you to the desert, soldier,” the captain explains. Link stands upright, rigid, awaiting further orders like a good soldier.

            “Sir?”

            “The outpost there has recently lost its best soldier—and a key strategist, the lieutenant commander writes,” he continues, raising the newly arrived letter and waving it slightly. The writing there is dense and seems to weigh the page down with the burden of its contents. “The Gerudo enemy is holding him captive in their fortress, and they won’t set him free unless the Hyruleans surrender.”

            “Where do I come into this?” Link asks, feeling that he already knows the answer.

            “They’re requesting a stealth specialist to lead an operation to infiltrate the fortress and extract the missing soldier.”

            “This fortress… it is in Gerudo Valley?’

            “Yes.”

            “Then that means it is the Gerudo army’s headquarters,” Link concludes. The lieutenant nods his head.

            “It is indeed, which is why in their letter the lieutenant commander of this camp asks for you specifically.”

            Link’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

            The lieutenant hesitates, then, sighing, sets the letter down. Beside the letter, a map is swarmed with blue and red markers, splashes of color to signify allied and enemy outposts. “You must have stood out to them for some reason. The truth is, Link…” He seems to be reluctant to make his next statement. “The truth is that you are, beyond the shadow of a doubt, our very best soldier.”

            “I—”

            The lieutenant holds up a hand to silence him. “Don’t speak, just listen—it’s true—you really are top-notch, soldier. That you joined Hyrule’s ranks and not the enemy’s—well, it is a blessing from the gods. You’ve saved our skin far too many times, and…”

            Link’s stomach turns. “And?”

            The lieutenant looks up. His countenance is calm. “…If—or, rather, when—you complete this mission, the war council has agreed that it would like to see you take over operations at Fort Courage. Your skill as a strategist is beyond anything we could have conjured up in our wildest dreams.”

            Link draws in a quick, shuddering breath and holds it in his lungs. The room seems to swirl for a minute. “I…”

            _I cannot,_ he thinks solemnly. _For so many reasons, I cannot…_

“Please,” the lieutenant presses. “Consider it.”

            “What you ask… that is a massive amount of responsibility,” Link remarks. “I don’t know that I’m prepared—really, I… I am honored, and yet… I can’t give you my answer today.”

            _Because the answer is ‘no,’_ he adds silently. _The thought of hundreds of soldiers at my beck and call—like little puppets, their lives in my hands… no, no, I cannot._

The lieutenant captain gives a half-smile and bows his head. “I understand. It is a… daunting… prospect.” He peers up. “I only ask that you see how this mission goes, and then you can decide. As for now, soldier, pack your belongings. I am sending you with a small party of soldiers as well as a navigator. You leave at first light; the lieutenant commander is expecting your arrival the day after tomorrow.”


	3. I.iii

_Part I.iii_

****

**_Her_ **

****

Between her palms, the gleaming bronze spyglass is untarnished, marked only by the smudged prints of her skin. She rolls it methodically, watching the setting sun’s light play off of it in wisp-thin beams of red and gold, the rays of both the sun and its reflection reaching out towards each other with a sort of yearning. Zelda can see her own reflection in the spyglass’ cylindrical surface—can see her own distinct frown, lean jaw, and cold eyes set rigidly in a young but stern countenance. She tries to soften her features, but it is to no avail. Her expression only seems sterner, and in irritation, she gives up and looks away from the spyglass.

            Her eyes turn towards the sun, a plump red orb hovering like a ripe fruit over the horizon. She imagines slicing it open and watching its juice spill across the dry, dusty sands, nourishing the earth and allowing life to spring from the fissure. It is too good a fantasy to entertain, and absentmindedly, she grasps a fistful of sand and lets the lifeless grains sift through her fingers, cascading back to the earth with a sound like a drawn-out whisper.

            _Evenfall,_ she thinks, looking back up at the sun. Even now, with half of it obscured by the far-off plateaus, she can feel the hot gust of its rays against her face. Kaepora’s last words to her echo in her ears.

            _“Gods guide you, Commander Zelda, Queen Regent, Hands of Hylia; I will see you again at evenfall.”_

“You lied,” she whispers into the night, and tries to picture his face in her mind. She recalls those eyes like glittering red stones, so red that she once wondered if he cried blood, and short, soft hair, snow-colored like fair-weather clouds against his coppery skin.

 _Seven evenfalls have passed since then,_ she realizes with agitation. A fearful anticipation—dread?—sits like a heavy stone in the pit of her stomach, sending a shocking chill through her blood every now and then. This dreaded feeling wraps its cold fingers around her and makes her feel like a child again—abandoned by her mother, her father, her lover—it jolts her, the memory of all those _goodbyes_ , people she loved, and now Kaepora…

            Something overtakes her, something that she can’t control. It wires her arms to reach for the closest object—a heavy, lumpy stone just the size of her fist—and she rockets to her feet and throws it as far as she can, watching as it sails towards the sun. She imagines it smashing against the sun, sinking into it with a fiery splash, causing it to burst into a thousand pieces, raining down on the enemy fortress, igniting it, charring it with a damnation so powerful that it takes a white flag protruding from the smoke to stop it—

            But, no—the rock lands one-hundred-something feet away from her, raising a cloud of dust upon impact, and in her aggravation Zelda explodes—“COME BACK!” she screams, her voice riding the wind over the horizon. “COME BACK! COME—”

            Arms entrap her; she writhes in the grasp.

            _“Calm down!”_ Impa’s voice hisses in Zelda’s ear.

            “How can I?!” the queen regent argues. Her thrashing slows to a stop. “How can I, when…”

            “Kaepora is gone for now—he is not lost. _Calm down._ ”

            That is when Zelda stills. It is surprise that sedates her, mostly, because Impa’s words have alerted her to something.

            “I wasn’t calling to Kaepora,” she whispers, and bows her head.

            Impa raises an eyebrow. “Then who… your parents?”

            “Maybe,” she answers, her breath shaking. But even that does not seem quite right…

            “What are you doing all the way up here, anyway?” Impa asks irritably, dropping the subject. “You are always leaving camp to climb the bluffs, and I am always stuck looking for you. You are like a flighty bird sometimes. Come back down to your quarters. We must discuss plans…”

            But her words wash over Zelda like waves; the queen regent does not hear them. In her mind, something swarms like bees, blotting all else out.

“Impa,” she breathes, and turns. For some reason, there is a touch of fear in her eyes. “Impa, you’re not going to leave me, are you?”

            The lieutenant commander softens. “Never,” she answers. She has been asked this question before; it is the question that always permeates that stiff armor she wears, the question that targets her forbidding exterior right where it is weakest. “Come along, Zelda. We must discuss plans for the arrival of the stealth specialist in two days.”

            Legs shaking, the commander trails behind the lieutenant commander towards the flock of white tents winking below in the twilight, the words _“come back”_ still echoing in her head, reaching out towards the horizon, towards someone she hasn’t seen in years—

            _“Let me hold you forever,” he whispers into her ear. His hot breath and sweaty skin feel sacred against hers. “I never want to leave.”_

_“So don’t,” she pleads, a whisper that shoots into the void of the night. It snags on him; he clutches her closer._

_“I won’t. Ever.”_

—someone who could be anywhere, or perhaps nowhere at all, and she would never know the difference.

           

 

**_Him_ **

****

            The midday sun beats down upon Link. His limbs feel like lead, and all around him, he can feel the world—the cracked earth; the thick, hot air; the wispy, trembling shrubs—drying out. A hot wind blows from the edge of the open field, and he knows without having to check his compass that he is facing southwest, where a wasteland awaits him. Gerudo Valley.

            He turns to the navigator.

            “How much farther?”

            The navigator retrieves his map. “A day’s ride, nearly. We can be there at sunrise, if we are quick, though we mustn’t tire the horses. The desert will exhaust them, I can promise you. Water is scarce; let us enjoy it while we can.”

            Just now, they have stopped to rest at a pool of water. Its source is nowhere to be found, but it rests in the center of a smattering of trees, like a divine surprise, a necessary blessing. The horses drink the water while the rest of the party fill their canteens, and Link, after a moment’s hesitation, begins to strip down.

            “What are you up to?”

            “Am I that unsightly?” he mocks. “Turn your back.” It is only half a jest; although in impeccable physical condition, he is marked from head to toe by scars—each pays tribute to years spent abroad, training with every weapon he could lay his hands on. With skin now bare, he steps into the pool of water, which is lukewarm in this incessant heat. He expects the pool to be only meagerly refreshing; to his surprise, there is something wonderful about it. He submerges fully and remains there for a moment. Who knows when he will feel this again?

            Breaking the surface, he turns his face again towards the sun. The water comforts his dry skin on all sides, a sort of unexpected and unusual ecstasy he hasn’t had cause to desire in a while. In the days before Fort Courage, he was more of a free spirit, able to pursue pleasure as it benefited him. Now, with war creeping into every remaining crevice of his life, he feels less like a person and more like a soldier every day. Even now, he can feel them trying to mold him as they call him from the water.

            _Keep trying to make me your puppet,_ he thinks irritably. _I’ll pull my own damn strings._

He wonders where he is going, wonders who, and what, lies in wait. Ultimately, all of it is beyond his control, though he opens his arms to it, as if to cradle this veiled fate to his chest.

 

**_Her_ **

****

The next evening, Zelda does not leave the camp. After hours of training and strategizing and taking stock of materials, her mind and muscles alike are aching and all that she wants is rest. She watches a lantern flicker, and thinks that she sees the shape of a horse and rider in the flame, though that seems contrived. After a moment, she decides that she is imagining it, and is about to snuff it out when somebody enters her quarters. It is simply a Sheikah, one who has come to fetch something for Impa. Zelda halts him in the process.

            “You there; come look at this lantern.”

            At her side, the slender Sheikah bows down and peers through the glass.

            “Do you see it, too?” the queen regent asks.

            “The flame?” he asks uncertainly. Zelda knows that all of her soldiers think her to be a little off, but they followed her into this desert, so they must be at least a little off as well.

            “Yes; what does it look like?”

            “…Commander, I see only the fire in the glass. I suppose it is quite beautiful… is that what you mean?”

            Zelda sighs. “Never mind,” she decides, and snuffs out the flame when the Sheikah leaves. In the darkness, she can clearly hear the crackling of campfires and rumbling of voices outside.

            “…She hasn’t been the same since Kaepora disappeared,” somebody is saying. Quietly, Zelda gets to her feet and steals across her quarters. The speaker’s voice is directly on the opposite side of the tent flap, and Zelda holds her breath instinctively.

            “I’ve noticed it, too,” a different voice replies. Impa.

            “It’s like she’s even madder than before… Do you think she’s afraid?” the other voice asks.

            “Afraid of what?”

            “The war.”

            “I think she’s afraid of many things,” Impa replies, “but not the war. The war is the only thing she’s not afraid of; sometimes, I think perhaps it is her escape.”

 

**_Him_ **

****

The sun rises over the parched earth, and Link presses his steed onward. The thunder of the hooves permeates his body and pumps his heart for him. For some reason, the anticipation welling within him is like nothing he’s ever felt, and he can’t say why. He wonders what it is that shakes him, and knows that he has done this sort of thing many times before, that he shouldn’t be worried, that he has everything under control…

            But there is a presence about those white tents in the distance that he hasn’t felt in many years…

            _“I get this feeling around you that I can’t quite explain…”_

_“Yes, of course… it’s called feeling aroused,” the princess is joking, sitting comfortably on top of him, her knees sinking into the featherbed on either side of his torso. It’s been weeks of this, tumbling into months—a blur of moonlit nights and locked doors, of a farmer boy on the vine, scaling her wall like a spider, taking her into his arms—or perhaps he falls into hers._

_It was supposed to be one night._

_“That’s not—what I mean.” He stumbles over his words. “It’s like this… this trembling in my whole chest and stomach and arms and legs and… and everything. Like somebody is dangling me a thousand feet in the air and I can’t do a damn thing about it.”_

_She lowers her forehead to his. “But do you like it?” A little ghost of air escapes her smile and caresses his face; it is intoxicating._

_“I think that I love it—that I love_ you _,” Link answers, and pulls Princess Zelda closer and closer to him, as close as he possibly can._

 

**_Her_ **

****

            “Commander, there is a party approaching on horseback,” a soldier is saying. His armor glints in the rising sun. “Should I send out a group to greet them?”

            “Yes, and let me come with you.” Zelda trails him to the edge of camp, which overlooks a location to the northeast. Right now, the newcomers are only smudges on the horizon, and even when she peers through her spyglass, all that she can make out is a Hyrulean banner blazing gold and blue in the growing light of day. She lowers the glass.

            “They are the party that we’ve been expecting; make to welcome them, but do not lower your defenses until I have made their acquaintance myself.”

            “Of course, Commander. Right away.”

            She follows the soldier and his companions down to the edge of camp. Impa meets them partway there and joins, her posture rigid at Zelda’s side. She is never more attentive than when she is suspicious; Zelda can feel the suspicion seeping out of the lieutenant commander even now, so powerful that it breaches her usually cool shell and betrays her. But there is no reason to be suspicious, Zelda reassures herself. These men fly her family’s banner, and are here to save Kaepora.

            She takes a long breath. The rider in the lantern flickers into her mind again, and with vexation, she snuffs it out. _Focus._

            Shimmering in the desert heat, the smudges on the horizon begin to take shape.

 

**_Him_ **

****

White tents reach towards the sky, each one coming to a point that is a far cry from the steeples of Hyrule Castle, though it recalls those towers, too, to mind. Link shudders at the memory, and realizes with something of a jolt that he recognizes the banners flying in the sky—one is the royal crest, and the other, the Crying Eye of the Sheikah… but, no—could this mean…?

            For the first time, he recalls the wax seal on the letter back at Fort Courage. The Crying Eye— _of course—_ how was he so dense as to not put two and two together? The Sheikah are only found in one place, and that is beside members of the royal family. But only one member of that family now remains…

            The vigor of his shaking increases.

            _Impossible…_

           

**_Her_ **

****

            The riders come closer, dust rising in their wake. The shadow of the hooded man at the vanguard is almost recognizable; she feels like she knows those shoulders and the way they bend over the horse, which is silly—how could she know this man by his shoulders when his face remains a mystery? No, no—she would have to know every line of this man’s body—unless…

            A shock runs through her, a straight shot from her scalp through her feet that seems to drive her into the ground.

            _It can’t be…_

 

**_Him_ **

****

            He brings his horse to a halt, conjuring up a cloud of sand and dust. Before it has time to clear, a young woman emerges from the nebula.

****

**_Her_ **

****

            She watches as the man at the front lowers his hood.

 

**_Them_ **

****

            And for the first time in seven years, Link and Zelda lock eyes.

****

****

 

 


	4. II.i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Just wanted to say thanks so much for the kudos & comments so far, it means a lot to know you're enjoying this story. I thought I'd take a quick minute to tell you a bit about it, if you'll so indulge me.
> 
> The idea for this fic struck me in late 2015, and about half of it is written. I stopped after a while and am going to be taking some time to catch up, so chapter updates are going to slow down in a bit; however, knowing that you guys are enjoying it means everything to me, and I'm excited to finish the story and share it with everyone.
> 
> Taking two seconds to click that little "Kudos" button is what keeps fanfic writers going, spending countless hours (for no profit) to keep fandom (do we still use that word?) alive and maintain a sense of community on AO3. So please keep supporting them all!
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter--it's a bit longer than in the past. 
> 
> -C :)

 Part II.i

 _I see her staring back at me,_  
_the gaze that pierces crystal._  
_There is a ray of light that_  
_links us, and her silence says,_  
_“I will not leave you.”_

_For who will be my strength_  
_if not the girl in the looking glass?_  
_She is in every unmarred surface;_  
_I have never looked for her_  
_and found the mirror empty._  
_She walks in my every step,_  
_in stride with me,_  
_arms swinging with me._

  
_There is some comfort in knowing_  
_I am never alone, that at least_  
_I can rely on myself to always_  
_catch my eye—_

_But then again,_  
_it is not enough to rely on someone_  
_that always catches, but does not throw._

_Part II_

IN CASTLE TOWN, the muses are playing. _There are two singers, a lute player, two men with brass horns, and a short, fat man in striped trousers with bells on his belt that shake when he dances. Around them, men and their ladies are dancing, the hammer of their feet thunderous against the pavement. Sunlight pours down on them, shadows dancing in line with their owners. Flower petals rain down from the treetops, plump with spring, and swirl atop the fountain waters where they land. All in all, the sun-speckled square is churning with life, crowded to the brim, because today is a very special occasion._

_“Happy birthday, little Princess!” a crowned man exclaims, and hoists a giggling Princess Zelda onto his shoulders. She shrieks and laughs, wiggling her legs back and forth, the pink satin bows on her new shoes flashing bright. “Look at them all, my dear Zelda! These people are here to celebrate your big day! Seven years old! Wow.”_

_She peers down at her father with unbridled glee, her infinite blue eyes alight with adoration. She extends soft fingers towards his whiskered jaw, brushing the chestnut-colored hair that’s so like hers—this, her beloved father, holding her close, grinning the grin of love’s great strength…_

 

…

Neither Link nor Zelda is willing to speak first _._ They can only devour one another with their eyes, seismic waves jolting them from top to bottom, while she can only think _it’s him but it’s not him,_ and he thinks _it’s her but it’s not her._

 _How could it be her?_ The horse stirs restlessly beneath Link, and he grips the reins and scrutinizes the woman before him. Those eyes he remembers, just as pretty as ever, but there is a new coldness to them, a kind of piercing stillness, and her pretty lips no longer look as if they want to be kissed. She refuses to look at him. His heart gallops about between his ribs and he wills it to still, but it is to no avail. Here she is, once again, physical and full and in front of him. A scarf conceals her lovely auburn locks, but that face is unmistakable—unlike the body. Her silk nightdress is gone and replaced by tight-fitting leather armor, shaping a sleek and lean form, far too muscular to be the frame he remembers, the flesh far too rigid to flow over him like it once did—those nights with her were like being lowered into warm water, when every tense cord was loosened and his worries seeped free of his skin. And _how could it be her, how could it be her?_

            How _could_ it be, when she looks upon his party with such distaste? He feels ready to crumple in the presence of her hardened gaze, and yet that is not in his nature; resilient as a stone, he lets her stare while he casts his eyes elsewhere, and even though he knows she is no longer watching, his muscles are still straining for strength.

            _It’s her… but it’s not her. She has never made me feel this way._

It takes him a moment to gather his courage, and then in one swift movement he descends from his horse, a cloud of sand rising and curling about his legs. The ground feels as if it is slipping out from underneath him—in more ways than one. He approaches her, his heart feeling ready to burst, his blood fiery hot in his veins. With a fist over his heart, he sinks to one knee. He cannot look her in the eye when he addresses her.

            “Your Majesty. I am honored.”

            “I am called ‘Commander’ here, soldier,” Zelda replies. The relatively unaffected tone to her voice jolts him even further.

            “Commander,” he speaks up over the quiet hiss of a desert breeze, “my name is Link.” That he must pretend not to know her, much less every inch of her body and mind, is more uncomfortable than it is painful. “You may know me as the Creeping Beast; that is what they call me back at Fort Courage, the Hyrulean home base. And these are my men, with whom I have traveled several long days and nights to come here.”

            He can hear himself saying the words, but he cannot feel them. His mind is elsewhere, and these are scripted words, anyway.

            “I understand that you have need of a stealth specialist,” he continues, “and I will do what I can to fulfill your mission.”

            “Rise, Beast. Let me look you in the eye.”

            His bones feel heavy, as if they are tethered with cords to the earth. Upright, he and the commander are of a height with one another—the commander unusually tall, the Beast a tad short—and their eyes lock perfectly into place. Something shimmers there, beneath her sunburnt brow. _Is she remembering?_ He is embarrassed by how much he hopes it to be true, and is embarrassed further when he becomes suddenly conscious of the fact that he _needs_ to touch her. It is a struggle not to reach for her. It would be easy, so easy, when she is only an arm’s length away…

            Even now, he is overcome with the insatiable urge to take her into his arms, to kiss her, to comb his fingers through her hair. To press his body, unbound by any conventions of space or time, to hers.

“You have already identified me as the monarch-in-waiting of Hyrule,” she says suddenly, sharply, “but as far as I am concerned, there is no royalty here. Death does not discriminate.” Her voice does not waver, but instead is as steady as the rocks that sculpt the landscape at her back. “Regardless, it is my honor as commander to welcome you to our encampment. You have come at a grave time; our army stands robbed of its finest soldier, with no prayer of defeat against the enemy. Your contribution gives us much-needed hope of victory. I will not raise the white flag, Beast. I will have you know that now.”

            Her words are scripted, too. He can tell that she has practiced them a hundred times at least, and now they are flat and dry, drained of all their vigor from one too many rehearsals.

            “Then all is as I anticipated,” he replies, as if to honor her.

            _It wouldn’t be the first time we have honored one another with lies…_

Something heavy sinks into the pit of his stomach and festers there, a sort of illness that seeps into his limbs. He feels like shaking again, and it takes a great deal of strength to suppress it. He is relieved when one of his companions begins to speak up. Communication has never been his strong suit.

            Stepping back, he allows his eyes to wander. Beside the commander stands another woman, taller and leaner yet, with a sheet of pale hair that angles sharply up from her chin like a razor blade. This must be Lieutenant Commander Impa. Her skin is colored a deep tan and wrapped with thin white scars like snakes, and Link wonders what she did to earn them. In the midst of his reverie, his eyes wander back to Zelda…

            She is already watching him. He snaps his gaze away immediately, heart hammering. Unpleasant memories start creeping back, and he smothers them before he can feel the brush of the shadow. The sickness is still in his stomach. He knows that Zelda likely looked away when he did, and now they both are staring into the sand, but he can feel her presence blazing at his side, a searing flame. It burns him; the burn is somewhat welcome, which only serves to distress him further. He is both sickened and aroused; Zelda, in her entirety, is before him—and yet, he senses, she is trapped within something other than herself. A sort of armor, a shell—another version of the girl he once loved.

            “You must be tired,” the lieutenant commander is saying. “I advise you each to rest. We have prepared quarters for you within our camp. Come along with me; I will show you.”

            The others dismount and the party proceeds through the shifting sands, up a steady incline to a place where shimmering white tents are lined up in rows. As they come to the fringes of the camp, Link can hear the screeching and clanging of the soldiers sharpening their swords and the distant ringing of sparring matches. To his left, one soldier sits shaving, shirtless in this heat, sweat pooling on his skin. Beside him, a companion sits idly and polishes a belt buckle. _Hylian soldiers._ They don’t bat an eyelash to the newcomers; they have probably seen enough men join their ranks and die that new blood doesn’t faze them anymore. Link cannot tell whether he is comforted or shaken by the thought.

            He glances to his right, where a boar is slowly roasting over a massive fire while two willowy Sheikah tend to it. It has been a long time since Link last glimpsed Sheikah, and these two remind him of their unusual, almost alien nature—dark skin and pale hair, with ruby eyes that seem to see what the Hylian eye cannot. He wonders if they can see his thoughts, and then brushes the notion away.

            _They’re soldiers, not mind-readers,_ he reminds himself, but it still unsettles him. He has enough to hide that he does not want a foreigner creeping in. _Creeping. That’s my area of expertise._

            They stop at a cluster of unoccupied tents. “Beast, these will be for you and your men,” Zelda—no, he must not think of her that way, she is _the commander—_ explains. “The large one is yours. They have been readied with all that you will need.”

            He bows low. “Thank you for your generosity, Commander,” he says. “I hope you’ll forgive my exhaustion; I require only a moment’s rest.”

            “As you wish, Beast. Come to my quarters after you are settled in, and we will begin to discuss the task at hand.”

            “Very well, Commander.” When no further words are spoken, Link escapes into his tent.

            It is as if a load of bricks has been lifted free of his shoulders. The tent flaps rustle shut behind him, cutting off Commander Zelda’s gaze, and he is safe. His gear falls unceremoniously to the floor and he collapses onto the cot opposite the opening, his limbs aching, sweat seeping out from his brow, his neck, his armpits. His mind is a whirlwind and his stomach feels sick; to quell the illness at least partially, he leans forward, elbows thrust into his thighs, legs spread wide, his feet pressing flat against the tent floor.

            As ill as he feels, he is even more concerned with _her_ thoughts. All that time, her face betrayed nothing; no knowledge of him, no memory of their time together… but why? Why didn’t she shake like he did?

            It perturbs him deeply that she didn’t seem to care…what was she thinking? Feeling? Was her heart pounding too, a secret earthquake in the cavern of her chest?

            He wobbles to his feet and begins to unpack, changing into something clean, devoid of sweat and dust. It is a dark green tunic, not unlike the farmer’s garb he had worn as a young boy…

            _Perhaps she will recognize me now,_ he thinks irritably, and begins mustering up the strength to face her again. A muffled voice sounds behind him.

            “Sir Link?” It is a timid voice, coming from outside of the tent.

            “Come in,” he grunts, half undressed. The triangular tent flap opens but briefly, throwing a wedge of sunlight against the opposite wall before falling shut again.

            “Ah!” the newcomer gasps at the sight of the half-clad soldier. “Forgive me, Sir, I thought you said I could come in.”

            “I did. What? Come back here. Don’t like what you see?”

            “No, Sir. I mean—don’t get me wrong—never mind—Sir, I am here to deliver a message.” He’s no more than a boy, and he possesses a nervousness that calls Fletcher to Link’s mind. Link suspects that he is perhaps fifteen, slim as anything, with a mop of curly brown hair and the beginnings of a beard. “Sir?”

            “ _Link_ will do.”

            “Forgive me—a habit—”

            “—What’s your name, anyhow?” Link asks, lifting the tunic above his head. It drapes around him in a veil of blessed darkness before fitting to his shoulders; a minute later, he begins fastening a belt around his waist.

            “Eagustan. Gus works.”

            “Right, then. Your message, Gus?”

            “I was sent by Sir Paragrant—I’m his squire, see—he wants to speak to you before today’s meeting. He said he’d escort you to Commander Zelda’s quarters.”

            Link, in suspicion, narrows his eyes.

            “Were these orders given to Sir Paragrant by the commander herself?”

            “Well—not exactly—”

            “Then you must send him my apologies. Our meeting will have to wait until I’ve finished convening with the commander and her council. Good day.”

            The boy doesn’t move. “Um… that’s not entirely a possibility, see.”

            “Nonsense, it is the only possibility. I’ve promised not to keep the commander waiting.”

            “But you see, Sir Paragrant, he’s…”

            Link raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

            The boy gulps. “He’s waiting just outside.”

            With a sigh, Link bows his head. “Very well.”

            He finds a man perhaps five years his senior waiting in the sunlight. He is coarse, his steel plate armor dark, simple, functional, clean. For a knight, this ensemble suggests a far cry from nobility, and implies, rather, sternness; stern, too, is his face, which is stiff and drawn, practically hewn of rock.

            “Beast,” he addresses curtly. “I am Sir Paragrant, captain of the Hylian division of this brigade and one of the commander’s councilmen.” Link finds himself at a loss for words.

            “Good day,” he finally musters up, knowing full well that he and Paragrant have been scrutinizing each other in equal measure.

            “Let me escort you to the commander’s quarters. I would like a word.”

            Link settles on being complacent; there’s no sense in making enemies this early. They walk, and Gus trots nervously behind.

            “Regarding?”

            “Commander Zelda. There is something you should know before you meet her.”

            “I’ve already met her,” Link points out. _Time and time again._

            “A few minutes of rehearsed welcome does not suffice as a true meeting; Beast, take it from me, who has known her many months…” He turns to Link, and his expression is urgent. “The commander is a _madwoman_.”

            Link suppresses a smirk. _This_ is what Paragrant wants to discuss?

            “Do you expect me to be surprised?” Link jokes. “She’s leading an army; of course she’s mad. I’ve never met a commander of any status who was in his—or her—right mind. It comes with the job.”

            “I think you underestimate my sincerity, Beast. This is not a call to levity. Commander Zelda is rash—her patriotism is a delusion, Beast, rooted in the mythos of her ancestors. She is waging a _holy war_ , in every sense of the word.”

            “I believe it,” Link states calmly. They are drawing near the commander’s quarters, now; the great white tent billows in the desert wind.

            “Beast, I entreat you to taste the bias on her tongue.”

            _Wouldn’t be the first time,_ Link thinks dryly.

            “She will not rest until her mad task is fulfilled! She will wage war on the Sacred Realm if that is what it takes. You do not know, because you have not heard her speak. But she is wild, Beast; as wild as they come. None can restrain her—Beast, you must understand—if she did not have Sheikah here to protect her, my Hylian men would have ended her command long ago.”  
            “Why are you telling me this?” Link asks, keeping his tone impassive.

            “Because she will not listen to us… she will not even listen to the lieutenant commander! She believes she is on a mission from the gods with every fiber of her being, all because the one whom you are setting out to rescue convinced her as such.”

            “The Sheikah named Kaepora?”

            “He was—is—Zelda’s favorite soldier. He believed her a goddess incarnate. Believe me, I appreciate our good monarchy as well as any other honest man, but this… this idolization, this apotheosis… it has driven her to madness. _He_ has driven her to madness.” He hesitates. “She loves him more than she loves the rest of us. There are rumors she has taken him as her lover.”

            _A lover?_ Sickness assaults Link’s stomach. He smothers it. “You still haven’t explained what this has to do with me,” Link points out. He and Paragrant halt ten yards from the commander’s tent.

            “ _You,_ Beast, have leverage; the commander is relying on you, and because of that, _you_ are the only one with a voice. She is desperate, and will do whatever you say.”

            “So, what? You want me to ask her to strike a deal or something? Tell her that I’ll rescue Kaepora if and only if she steps down from her position as commander and elevates you instead?”

            Paragrant blinks. “How did you know what I wanted?”

            “I’ve dealt with your type before,” Link remarks outright.

            “You must understand: the Gerudo king cannot be defeated. There _must_ be a ceasefire; a treaty must be made! Use the voice you have. The longer we are here, the longer Hyrule goes without a proper queen. We do not have the money for this war anymore; we must return home to the people we are fighting for, or there will be no country left to defend! Beast, this is no mere request; I am begging you to consider this. You are the _only one_ who can make her listen.”

            “No.”

            “What?!”

            “No,” Link states again, simply, impassively. “Paragrant— _Sir_ Paragrant—I have a job to do. I’m not here to play politics. I’m here to make my fifteen hundred rupees and go home.” He turns to Gus, who’s gaping at them both, slack-jawed. “Tell this guy to mind his own business if he doesn’t want to be kicked off the council. I’ve got an awful lot of leverage, apparently.” He pats Paragrant on the shoulder, smiles halfheartedly, and enters the tent.

            It is cooler in here, and well furnished, though unoccupied. A map is spread out across a table, surrounded by several oddities—an oil lamp, a compass, quills, ink, wax. The lamp burns low, and when he looks closer, he feels as if he can see a shape in it—the shape of a woman unwinding a scarf from her head.

            “Beast.”

            He glances up. The lieutenant commander has emerged from a flap at the side of the tent that leads to some appendix; another room of sorts. “The princess will receive you in her private quarters,” Impa says. She is graceful, but not elegant, Link notices. The Sheikah are stated to make combat into a dance, and while her movements suggest finesse in every element of her life, they do not suggest beauty. Precision, Link thinks, and cleanness, do not necessarily make one poised.

            “Very well,” he says. A whirlwind of nerves assaults him again, and he follows where she gestures—through the flap, then past a gossamer curtain, into what very evidently is the private chamber of royalty. It is expensively and fashionably furnished, even in a time of war. A headscarf, now cast off, hangs from a bedpost. And Zelda—stern and beautiful, seated, adorning a scroll with her signature—is the fire at the center of it all.

            She glances up. Her expression says nothing. “Creeping Beast,” she addresses quietly. Link is so taken aback at the use of the code name that he can only laugh. After all this waiting, a cold welcome—he’d have preferred nothing at all. Fury intoxicates him.

            “Fine, then. I’ll just pretend not to know you, too,” he says, injecting cheeriness into his tone like a poison. The result is sickening. _Sugar and spice._ Like a stab: calculated and lethal.

            Her armor cracks.

            “I didn’t know it would be you.”

            “And what? I did?” He turns to face her. She has stood, and he lets his eyes trail her body unabashedly, taking in every place where she’s bound her curves with leather. His gaze lands on her face. It’s not the face he remembers. “Don’t flatter yourself, Commander. I’m not here because of you, and you’re not here because of me. This—” he gestures vaguely—“is a cruel, cruel accident.”

            “You really didn’t know I’d be here?” she remarks.

            “I hadn’t the foggiest idea. Really, Commander. I’m here to build a profile as a specialist, _not_ to see you.”

            She changes the subject. “I thought you were dead.”

            “Sorry to disappoint you,” he sneers.

            “I thought—” she’s hardly listening, damn her—“that you’d die when they banished you.”

            A dark laugh escapes him. “When _you_ banished me, you mean.”

            “It was better than putting you in prison.”

            “Oh, putting me in prison? Or _joining_ me in prison? Calling me a trespasser when they caught me sneaking to your chambers, then denying you knew me—that was a sweet sting, wasn’t it? Like a hornet. Tease them with honey, then stick ‘em where it hurts. Princess—” he bows—“even after that, I am here again, at your service. Funny, how that works out.”

            “After the banishment, what did you do? How did you make it back to Hyrule—how did you join the army? They shouldn’t have allowed you, you were on record as a criminal.”

            “With all due respect, Commander, that’s none of your damn business. Speaking of business, where’s your council? Is there a reason we’re speaking in private?”

            “Link, I don’t want there to be any bad blood between us. Letting you go was—was difficult.”

            “Difficult? If you want to talk about _difficulty,_ you’ve come to the right place. Zelda, letting _you_ go? Letting my _country_ go? Leaving behind my family, my farm, my entire _life?_ That was _excruciating,_ not difficult _._ ” He turns away. “I’m sorry you had to go back to sleeping alone after you banished me from Hyrule. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

            He can hear the commander release a trembling sigh, but he doesn’t hear her approach, and when she touches his arm, the static jolts him and he coils away.

            “Don’t you dare,” he threatens.

            “How can I not?” she says weakly. Then, noticing her weakness, she draws herself up and steps away.

            “This morning, when I saw you, I wanted to undress you. I still do,” he continues brazenly, “but I’ll toss myself into a pit of vipers before I let you touch me again. I’m not interested in your betrayal, however heavenly it’s disguised.”

            Zelda is fuming. “I wasn’t offering it to you.”

            “Why the private quarters, then? So we can come up with a secret plan to sneak into Ganondorf’s scary castle? Good news for you, Princess: I’ve done it before. Many times. I’ll have your precious Sheikah back to you in no time at all, so you can go back to enjoying a good romp in the sand or whatever it is you two do together. Is it true that he’s your lover?”

            “You are being _immensely_ disrespectful!” Zelda cries. “Kaepora is a brilliant strategist and a loyal friend. I understand that you’ve been hurt, and I apologize for that. You’ve hurt me, too.”      

            _You avoided the question,_ Link thinks bitterly.

            “But we’re not here to talk about that,” she continues quickly. “We have a job to do and somebody to save.”

            “Call in your council, then. This is terrible. I’d rather pretend not to know you again,” he decides, but even as he says it, he regrets it. _Anything but that,_ he realizes, but it is too late. Zelda beckons him back into the main room of the tent, which is now all abandoned with the exception of a large table bearing a map. The commander exits the tent, and when she returns, she has Paragrant and several other Hylian soldiers and Sheikah at her back. Impa, too, has joined them. Link eyes Paragrant, whose eyes dart elsewhere. _Coward,_ Link realizes, but says nothing.

            “Impa, councilmen, allow me to introduce you to our newest stealth specialist, codename Creeping Beast, whose mission is to extract Kaepora from the enemy base and return him here.”

            They go down the line, introducing themselves, though Link hardly cares and is not paying attention. Instead, his eyes dart to the back corner, where Gus is lurking nervously.

            “Hey,” Link interrupts, “what’s he doing in the corner like that? Invite him forward, let him take part.”

            “He’s not here to fight wars, he’s here to learn,” Paragrant cuts in.

            “So let him learn.” Link beckons Gus over, who advances ever so shyly in the direction of the council. He hovers like a shadow behind Paragrant, just close enough to observe without being in the thick of things.

            “Give me the background, why don’t you?” Link suggests, leaning over the map.

            Impa gestures at different areas on the map. “This is our camp… here, to the west, is the Gerudo Fortress. The seat of—”

            “—King Ganondorf, I’m aware,” Link replies smoothly. “I know all that already. I’ve been.”

            “What?” Gus gasps, and then covers his mouth.

            “How did you get in? Tell us,” Zelda implores. The hatred has drained from her eyes, replaced, temporarily, by desperation.

            “I played a character. A magic beans salesman. Don’t get your hopes up; it won’t work again. They tightened security after that,” Link says flippantly. The commander’s face falls.

            “I see.”

            “Lucky for you, since I’ve been to the fortress before, I know where all its weak points are. Everything—and everybody—has got a weak point. Does anyone have a quill and ink? Let me sketch—ah, thank you, Paragrant—ahem…”

            He draws the outline of the fortress, a bird’s-eye view. “There are tunnels leading in and out of the fortress that the Gerudo use to transport supplies—here, here, here, and here. Three of them are heavily guarded, but one exits into their Spirit Temple, where by religious doctrine, they’re not allowed to be armed. That’s this one, the one to the southwest of the fortress.”

            “So if we could get into the temple…” Zelda muses, lost in thought.

            “If we get into the temple, we can breach the fortress from there. Yes.”

            “You say it’s not guarded?”

            “It’s guarded on the inside,” Link explains, “but I have the stealth tactics to infiltrate the fortress without getting caught. Trust me.”

            “We _are_ trusting you,” Impa muses. “A little too much, I’m afraid. _Where_ did you learn all of this?”

            “Like I said, Lieutenant, I’ve been to the fortress enough to know it like the back of your hand.”

            “You’ve been there more than once?”

            “What? Don’t be so surprised. I’m not called a specialist for nothing.”

            “And you played this character… every time?”

            “Pardon the confusion, Lieutenant, but I played the character of the bean salesman only once.”

            “And the other times?”

            “I took the tunnels. That was before they stationed guards there. They thought the tunnels were secret, but I was using them for months before they realized.” He can tell that Impa is reluctant to place her faith in him. _Time will tell her whether I am worth trusting._

“Very well,” Impa says, complacent. “So, then. Suppose you _are_ able to traverse the tunnel from the Spirit Temple into the fortress. That is only one-third of the battle. Without even raising the question of how to extract Kaepora, what of the journey _to_ the temple? I am certain the way will be rough; these sands are unforgiving.”

            Link considers her question. “The temple will be difficult to reach, there’s no question of that. It’s on the other side of the fortress. We’ll have to go around the fortress first, and somehow enter the temple without being seen…”

            “That is no small obstacle.”

            “No,” Link admits. “It isn’t.”

            “Do we even know the path?” Zelda pipes up.

            “I’ll admit I do not,” Link replies softly. A thick silence follows.

            “Suppose we send a scout?” Paragrant finally suggests. “I can send one of my men to find the best path—where we’re least likely to be spotted…”

            “I’ll do it,” Link and Zelda say in unison, and then look at each other, and again remark simultaneously, bitterly, “No, _I’ll_ do it.”

            “I’m the specialist. This is my task.”

            “And I’m the commander. This is my _war.”_

“Commander Zelda,” the lieutenant imparts, “you are too valuable—”

            “ _I,”_ Zelda snaps, “am the _commander._ How am I supposed to lead, if not by example?” Her expression is firm. “ _I_ will scout, and Sir Paragrant will come with me.”

            “Very well, Commander.”

            “What about me?” Link cuts in. “Wasn’t I hired for the task?”

            “My decision is final,” Zelda snaps, and that’s the end of it. “We will depart at dawn. In the meantime, we must continue to strategize—what are you laughing at, Beast?”

            Indeed, Link is snickering.

            “With all due respect, Commander, you’ll kill yourself with folly. The temple is too close to the fortress. They’ll put an arrow through your heart before you even get close.” He gazes around. “I know the Gerudo terrain better than any of you. I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long.”

            “Mind your tongue, Beast,” Impa warns. Link scoffs.

            “What’re you going to do, send me home? I wish you good fortune, if that’s the case. You’ll be needing it.”

            “What, then, do you propose?” Zelda challenges. The venom has seeped back into her words. “We have to sneak in _somehow!_ It’s not like we can just storm the fortress—such a thing would be foolish—why are you looking at me like that?” Zelda has interrupted herself, having realized that Link’s eyes are set—intently—on her.

            “Say that again,” he implores.

            “It would be foolish—“

            “—No, the first part—“

            “…To storm the fortress… would be foolish…”

            “…Storm…” repeats Link in what is hardly more than a whisper. His blue eyes shimmer with sudden realization. “That’s it,” he breathes, and looks at her—her heart stops—

            “What?”

            “A storm… we need a storm…”

            It’s just hit him. _A sandstorm would obscure our approach._

“Don’t be daft,” Impa scoffs, catching on. “The goddess of sands doesn’t take sides; the enemy will be blind, but so will we.

            “Unless there’s some way for us to see through it,” Link reckons. “Last I checked, that was… extremely possible.”

            “What are you talking about?” Impa interrupts. She is skeptical, but he is just smiling coolly.

            “Sheikah are famous for their experiments with lenses—with bending light to reveal what is hidden to the naked eye. Or haven’t you heard of the legendary Lenses of Truth?”

            Impa’s face goes pale. “How do you know about those?”

            “Do you have one?” he presses, not bothering to answer her question. “One is all we need—one all-seeing eye to guide us through the sand—the enemy will never see us coming; we can sneak in, we can take them by surprise—interrogate them—find out where they’re keeping Kaepora—extract him—by then the sand will have cleared…we will need a quick getaway planned—”

            “You are a madman,” Impa breathes.

            “I,” Link counters, an edge to his voice, “am an expert.”

            Silence.

            “Now, Lieutenant Impa… do you—or do you not—possess one of the legendary Lenses?”

            After a long moment, it is Zelda who speaks up.

            “Impa does not… but I do,” she says slowly, and reaches hesitantly towards her belt. An exquisite bronze spyglass flashes at her hip. _That’s it, there we go,_ Link thinks triumphantly. He feels, suddenly, a marvelous desire well up within him. He cannot tell what it is that arouses him—her, or the sudden emergence of a strategy.

            “Perfect.” Link’s words are eclipsed by a hush. His eyes trail up Zelda’s body, to her face. She is looking to Impa for guidance; the lieutenant is stoic.

            “It is … for all intents and purposes … a novel plan,” the lieutenant commander finally admits. She turns to the commander. “If, of course, you are willing to forfeit the spyglass to the Beast.”

            “I will agree to this mission … but _I_ will remain in charge of the spyglass,” Zelda insists. “That is final.”

            “Oh, is it?” Link smirks. “Very well.”

            Zelda has gone surprisingly melancholy. “That … is enough for now. We will reconvene later on the matter. I need some time to myself.”

            She casts Link one last look—and that look is so many things: suspicious, resentful, hesitant, cold—and then withdraws into her private quarters without another word. Most of the council disbands, but Link is left with Paragrant and Gus. With a sigh, he turns to the squire.

            “What do you think of all of this?” he asks, figuring it can’t hurt. Gus presses his lips together and turns to Paragrant, apparently looking for an answer.

            “Go on, boy,” Paragrant says with a sigh.

            “Seems like—begging your pardon—lots of work to save just one soldier.”

            Link remains wordless, but the name  _Kaepora_ flashes in his mind even as the council disbands. Kaepora. Kaepora.  _There are rumors she has taken him as her lover … her lover … her lover …_


	5. II.ii

Part II.ii

 

_“All this crowd, here to celebrate your birthday with you!” the king cries, his young daughter still balanced on his shoulders. “Tell me, did you know you had so many friends?”_

_“Friends?”_

_“Yes. Your subjects are your friends, as you are theirs. Their love is great, and their loyalty boundless—and so must yours be.”_

_The princess cranes her neck so as to better examine the sea of people before her. “I can’t see them all!” she finally remarks. “There are too many.”_

_The king laughs. “Hm,” he says after a minute. “Perhaps I have the solution.” At his hip, he’s always carried a bronze spyglass. Now, he draws it from his belt and hands it to his daughter. “Go on. Give it a try.”_

_She takes the spyglass slowly, and her grip is tender. It’s heavier than she expected, and even more beautiful up close. “It’s okay?”  
            The king laughs. “More than okay. What are you waiting for? You peek through the little end.”_

_“I know that,” she says irritably, and draws the glass up to her eye. Immediately, the world blows up before her, and she erupts into a spasm of giggles._

_“I can see everything from here!” she gasps with delight. The king laughs, a great and barreling laugh that warms Zelda from the core._

_“You should keep it.”_

_She lowers the glass in surprise, and her eyes open wide. Two blue moons. Twins. “What? Are you sure?”_

_“I am sure and surer yet with every moment that passes. Yes. You should keep this spyglass, Zelda, because_ that _way—” he lowers her to the ground—“you will always be able to find your way back to me, and we shall always be together again._

In the privacy of her quarters, Zelda extracts the spyglass from her belt and rolls it between her palms. A certain possessiveness washes over her, mixed with unease. She swallows heavily, and glances down at the bronze cylinder, hands freezing, heart swelling up with the memory of the first time she held it.

Suddenly, she realizes her own restlessness. She can’t sit here anymore; she must go outdoors. Wrapping the scarf back about her head, she exits her quarters. She treks across the sun-drenched camp toward her usual lookout spot, and when she reaches it, she spreads out comfortably. The ground, baking in the desert air, is warm on her stomach and thighs, and she lets it soothe her—she revels in the way that Din’s earth shares its heat with her, like the embrace of a loving parent.

            At the thought, she is cold again.

            _Lost! She has lost him!_

_In the tangle of skirts and stocking-clad legs, the little princess begins to panic. She wandered too far during the dancing, and now she is lost…_

_Her breaths are short and ragged, her heart a savage animal demanding to be uncaged. In her panic, she loses her step—trips—and her frail form slams against the pavement, causing her father’s spyglass to slip from her belt—the spyglass! It rolls away, clattering and clanging over cobblestones._

_The king’s voice is suddenly in her ears:_

You will always be able to find your way back to me, and we shall always be together again…

            _She grapples for the spyglass as it rolls, her soft fingers wrapping around the metal, warm from sitting in her pocket, and hanging on tight. Stumbling to her feet, she peers through the glass—_

_And just like that, the bodies around her vanish. Magic! She can see her father across the plaza, and he, too, is panicked—because he cannot find her!_

_She scrambles in his direction, and when she finds him again, she throws her arms around his legs as her eyes churn out tears._

_“Zelda!” the king gasps. “Thank the gods—I was worried sick—what happened to you? You’ve dirtied the front of your gown…”_

_“It’s j-j-just…” Zelda sobs. “I thought … I thought that I lost you. That you left me behind. I thought—I feared—I was alone.”_

_…_

The day melts by, and when Zelda has had enough of the thick desert air, she collapses her spyglass and descends the bluffs to the slopes where the camp is draped in that almost lackadaisical way—those little white tents, pregnant with lantern light against the dimming evening, tethered to a dry and sandy earth that sheds its skin with every breaking day.

            All it takes is a gust of wind to pluck a tent from its lot, and this happens half a dozen times a day—tents coming unfastened from the parched, loosely gathered earth, like blood that cannot clot, the tent fluttering blanket-like into its neighbor, eventually hooking onto—and, appropriately, outlining—the cot, the table, the sleeping soldier within—and so the soldier thrashes, and two more, four more men, come sauntering along to drag the tent back into a pronounced triangle, hammering the stakes back into the earth, cursing all the while—this is how a man lives in a desert that breathes and coughs and howls like him, shrieks like him, sighs like him, laughs like him.

            Across camp, Zelda sees Link sparring. Twin rivulets of sweat surge down from his underarms and pool there, mixing with the sweat of his back. Even from here, Zelda can practically smell it. The memory of their intimacy ensnares her; panicked, she banishes it to the outskirts of her mind, where it lingers sickly yet sweetly, the two flavors mixing and prodding her—teasing her—brushing her with cold hands.

            Turning away, she tries to forget what she’s seen. Even so, the sound of clashing blades carries through the air, and she cannot escape it. She keeps pacing—first past the soldiers’ tents, then past her own, to the other side of camp where the Sheikah reside, and where she has decided, also, to house Link.

            _The Creeping Beast._ The world _would_ call him that—it is an apt name— _I am the reason he discovered that talent, after all._

            His tent is quiet, untouched. Nobody is around to see her. Unable to resist temptation, she sneaks into the shadow of his tent and glances around.

            Outside, the sun has almost set, and it is difficult to see very much in this half-light. Yet there is no mistaking it—these quarters belong to a man who is foreign to her.

            _Very_ foreign.   

            Shields with exotic sigils lean against the base of the cot. A blanket, ornately patterned—clearly a gift—is draped across it. Gadgets of all applications—a bow—a boomerang—some sort of tool with a chain and hook—line the table. When she last knew him, he’d only ever wielded a plough.           

            _Where has he been since then? What has he learned?_

Tentatively, she approaches the table and runs her fingers over an extraordinary set of gauntlets, each finger adorned with silver plating and rubies. An insatiable urge grips her to try it on—she goes to slip her slender hand into the quiet, waiting chasm—

            _“What do you think you’re doing?!”_

Jostled, she releases the gauntlet. It falls to the tabletop with a _thud,_ and she peers up guiltily. Link’s form devours the entrance to the tent, broad in scope and resonating heat like a furnace. He is drowning in sweat.

            “Either tell me what you’re up to, or get out,” he insists. When she doesn’t move, he huffs and brushes angrily past her. “Fine.” His posture is rigid as he undresses bitterly, discarding his sweaty clothes almost carelessly in the corner and opting for something lighter.

            “I am the commander,” she says softly. “You cannot tell me what to do.”

            “Doesn’t mean I can’t question your motives. What were you expecting to find in here?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “Not me, I hope.”

            “No. Not you.” She gestures vaguely. “I can see from your arsenal that you’ve been … abroad.”

            “You make banishment sound so alluring,” he deadpans. “Do you like the blanket? I can see you staring at it. It’s from a southwestern woman. I know that’s probably what you’re afraid of. She taught me how to shoot a bull’s-eye and told me that blanket could heal a broken heart. She prayed to control the weather. I prayed with her. We sat on the blanket and meditated and talked and sang and over time I got better at shooting bull’s-eyes. And we rode together. I tried to teach her how to read. She taught me medicine. She wanted to wed me. I didn’t want a wife, but we shared a bed anyway. Do you want me to keep going?”

            “What was her name?” Zelda asks weakly.

            “Din, after the goddess. I killed her brother, you know. He raped a half-Gerudo girl who’d wandered onto his land, so I put a bull’s-eye through his heart. She asked me to. Don’t give me that look. Everyone in those parts has some Gerudo blood. I know the Gerudo are your enemy. Well, so was I, in those days.” He pauses. “Get out of my tent.”

            “But you were with her. This Din. You made love to her.”

            “Who said it had anything to do with love? Go away.” He sits on the edge of his cot, his back to her. She wishes she could say she recognizes him in the darkness, as she once did, but up close he is different—the lines of his body are taut, firm, drawn. Her lover was muscular, yes, but soft, too, with a reddened neck that turned white at his shoulders from a life spent in sun-washed fields. The large, warm, gentle farm boy would not fit into the lean capsule of this new warrior no matter how tightly he squeezed. The soft bits of flesh have been chiseled away by time, and probably anger, and have left not much room for love, Zelda suspects. She wants so badly to remember him properly, but in the act of seeing him again, seems to forget him twice as fast. So it goes.

            “I’m sorry for trespassing,” she says finally, hanging her head.

            “Yeah.”

            Silence.

            “I will be leaving early for my scouting mission tomorrow, and in the meanwhile I think you and Impa should discuss a strategy for once we’ve infiltrated the fortress—”

            “Don’t come in here if you’re going to talk about _that,_ ” Link insists. Zelda is taken aback.

            “What?”

            “I don’t want to talk about your bloody mission, or your sad lonely soldier who you’re risking life and limb for. Don’t taunt me with _war business,_ that’s not what this is, that’s not why you’re here. You’re here to snoop around and see who I am, who I’ve become, who you turned me into when you denied you ever knew me and had me exiled from your kingdom.”

            “I had no choice.”

            “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t.” Now, _now_ he looks up at her, a steely fury in his eyes. “Did you know Malon’s married now? To one of the ranch hands. Abe. I grew up with him. He was my friend. Now Abe’s got three booger-nosed children and more livestock than he knows what to do with and a beautiful, plump, probably pregnant wife. And a life, a real damn life, Zelda. The life I was meant to have.”

            “If that’s what you wanted, then why did you come back to my tower?” Zelda snaps. “Why’d you risk it all for one more night with me?”

            Link stiffens up. “Because I was addicted. Because I was foolish.” He stands up and turns away again. “I should never have risked any of it for you.” His words dissolve into the shadows. “I knew I was meant to marry Malon. The whole damn time—every night when I was undressing you—I knew it. I was all set to take over her father’s ranch. But _you …”_ He laughs darkly and shakes his head, glancing, then, over his shoulder, and raking his eyes up and down Zelda’s silhouette. “Well, just how many dumb farm boys get the chance to share the bed of Princess Zelda?”

            She doesn’t say anything.

            “Seriously?” he prods. “How many? I’m sure I wasn’t the first … nor the last.”

            When she still doesn’t answer, he gazes away. “So, then … do you banish all your lovers when you’re finished with them? Or do you concoct other ways to make them disappear—an impossible sandstorm kidnapping, perhaps? And a ransom note for good measure?”

            “That’s—that’s _enough_ ,” Zelda finds herself gasping, shaken.

            Link merely shrugs. “This is my tent,” he reminds her. “You can leave if you don’t like what you hear.”

            “You don’t know anything about me,” she utters darkly.

            “ _You_ don’t know anything about you, Zelda,” he scoffs, and peels back Din’s blanket so he can crawl underneath. “Believe me. Seven years, and you’re just the way I left you. Maybe you look a little angrier than before, but you’re still just as disoriented, all tangled in the brambles, like a lost girl.” His head falls on his pillow.

            “I am a grown woman,” she insists. “You think you have so much power over me just because I need something from you—please. _Grow up.”_ Her tone is scathing. “You’re not as powerful as you think you are.”

            “Funny. I was going to say the same to you.” He sits up again. Stares her down. “Your men are considering mutiny. There’s a nice thought to help you drift off to sleep.”

            Her eyes go wide. “Wh-what?”

            “Well, I wasn’t going to say it. Don’t give me that look. It’s not _my_ decision.”

            “Who?”

            “Paragrant. The lot. Shiny bastards.”

            “Why are you telling me this?”         

            “Why do you think? To get under your skin. Please go away now, I’d like to get some shuteye, thank you very much.” Down again.

            Zelda is hushed. “I—I can’t go scouting with Paragrant—if all is as you say…”

            “Don’t, then. Let me go.”

            “ _No_ ,” Zelda insists. “I’ve told you already, if I don’t go, then … then I’m just being rotten, and false, and I’ll lose any right I have left to command this army. A good queen leads by example—and I’m going to be a good queen.”

            “Enjoy being mutinied.”

            “ _You’ll_ come with me,” she decides.

            Link snorts into his standard-issue pillow. “Right.”

            “Seriously. You’re horrid, but I trust you. We need each other; that’s been established. You want to build a profile. I want to save my best soldier.”

            “I’ll only go if you don’t, and that’s final,” Link says. He still doesn’t look at her. “The truth is, Zelda, I can’t work around you. My mind will be too cluttered. All we’ll do is fight. Use some common sense.”

            “But strategically, there’s no better option,” she points out. Link doesn’t answer. “I know you like that, Link,” she says, and steps toward him. “I know you. Just like when we used to plot ways in and out of my bedroom. Remember when we ran off through the cellar tunnel? And used the servants’ stairs to escape the castle walls? We were a brilliant team—we can do it again, I know we can, it’s just a different fortress is all. Think about it. We can _both_ get what we want.”

            For a moment, in the dead silence, she fears he has fallen asleep.

            But then:

            “I’ll be ready at dawn,” he says. A silent sense of victory washes over the commander. “Now—for gods’ sakes—would you get out of my tent?’

…

Paragrant doesn’t take kindly to the news.

            “Are you raving _mad?!_ ” he cries, dragging Link aside after the commander informs the council of her new plan. Paragrant’s tone is hushed and urgent. “You’re letting her get into your head—it is exactly as I feared!”

            “I’m a soldier,” Link reminds him. “I take orders, just like you.”

            “ _Please._ The commander hasn’t got any power over you—don’t look at me like you don’t know. She’s desperate. She’ll do anything.”

            “You’d be surprised.”

            “Let me go with you,” he insists. “I won’t have her creeping into your brain like Kaepora crept into hers!” he cries, and claps a hand over his mouth. He turns away. “I shouldn’t have… forgive me.”

            “What do you mean?” Link presses.

            “I shouldn’t say.”

            “Please,” Link begged. “If I’m at risk, I’d rather just know.”

            Paragrant swallows heavily. “Kaepora … seduced her very mind. And in return, he was—utterly devoted. Like a slave. The Sheikah, Kaepora, he would have lit himself on fire if the commander wished it.” His head falls into his hands. Dawn is seeping ever so gradually into the camp, the soldiers beginning to stir awake and emerge, tent flaps rustling like a moth’s wings.

            “He… _worshipped_ her,” Paragrant continues. “It was sickening to behold. He thought her a goddess—called her the _Hands of Hylia,_ among other things.”

            “You’ve mentioned that before. That he idolized her, I mean.”

            “They both are mad. They spiraled into madness together. It was a phenomenon that I … cannot even begin to describe.” He runs the pads of his calloused fingers along the bridge of his sturdy nose. “I have been on Zelda’s council ever since this war started. Before that, I negotiated foreign affairs in Parliament. I watched her grow from a girl into a woman. She was charming, once, and bright.”

            _I know,_ Link resists the urge to say. “People change,” he musters up.

            “Not like that. Not like her. She went from sitting for portraits and settling property disputes to waging war on a man we had no reason to suspect of foul play. King Ganondorf had never intended to make us his enemy … until the princess insisted he was after a holy relic. That was what Kaepora told her, when he arrived and seduced her with his prophesies. _Holy relic—_ can you believe it? These are modern times! Holy wars are a thing of scripture. I am certain that the Sheikah had an ulterior motive—he must have _wanted_ something—but there are no resources in the desert to speak of, and we will win nothing here. We have only been fools to follow her—but what choice did we have, when she was the queen, and her word was final?”

            Paragrant has emptied himself of all there is to say, and now he hangs his head. Link doesn’t know how to respond.

            “What if she’s right, though?” is all he can say. “What if Kaepora’s not lying? How can you be certain that Ganondorf doesn’t know more than us about a relic—what if it could lead to disaster?”

            “See! I knew it—she’s going to do just the same to you as that Sheikah did to her.”

            “All I’m saying is that you haven’t even bothered to find out the truth about the desert king…”

            Paragrant laughs gruffly. “Ay, Beast … are you suggesting some sort of intelligence operation?”

            “Beast!” the commander’s voice echoes across camp. She is striding in their direction. “The horses are ready. We should go.”

            Paragrant stands up quickly. “Commander, I implore you, _let me join.”_

“I’ve only readied two horses, Sir Paragrant, and besides, three riders will attract even more attention than two.”

            “And hold their ground better as well, should you encounter the enemy,” Paragrant presses.

            “That’s true as well,” the commander says offhandedly. She doesn’t even pretend to heed his caution. She is brazenly mistrustful. “Besides,” she continues, “I need you to remain here. Should the enemy attack, you will be in charge of your men, and Impa will command the Sheikah. Is that understood?”

            Paragrant glances over Zelda’s shoulder to where Link is mounting his steed. Link returns his gaze, and, noticing the flicker of concern still in Paragrant’s eye, begins to feel that he has made a mistake in his caveat to Zelda. He doesn’t want to take sides, and yet he can’t help but fear that Paragrant is right—that Zelda is mentally stronger than she seems—that her words will loose the stitching on his autonomy, and whatever stuff he’s made of will proceed to fill her vessel.

            He won’t let her use him. _Again._

            But it’s too late. Zelda has bid Paragrant an impatient farewell and mounted her horse—a lovely silver thing that shines like moonlight.

            “Let’s go,” she says hurriedly. She brings her steed immediately to a gallop, raising a cloud of dust in her wake.

            Link turns once more to Paragrant.

            “You’ll tell me if she tries anything?” the knight begs. Link remains stiff.

            “With all due respect, Sir, I’m not your spy. _Hyah!”_ And he sets off toward Zelda’s retreating figure.

 


	6. II.iii

           Part II.iii

 

 _She waits—gods, does she hate waiting—outside the heavy oak door, glaring at the doorknob, still and silent. She wonders what the door is hiding. Gods, she resents it—gods, gods,_ please _gods, let this pass, let this pass…_

_The knob jiggles—her heart stops—and the chief nurse appears in the frame. “You may come in,” she whispers. Zelda gulps and takes a shaky step forward, through the door, into the gloom of the infirmary. The drapes have been drawn. She is normally light of foot, silent as curled smoke, but today every footstep rattles the earth. The silence chains her; she is afraid to move, or breathe, or think in a way that will disturb it._

_She turns the corner._

_Once, she recalls, her father was fat—a glutton, but a jovial one—thick in the tummy but pure of heart. Now, the mound of blankets and pillows that smother him recall the image of the once-fat king to mind—but beneath it all, he is frail._

_Beneath it all, he is dying._

…

 

It is still twilight when they lose sight of the camp, a pale blush just beginning to crawl over the horizon. When the earth’s dry plane is empty in all directions, the pair brings the horses to a halt, and Link turns to Zelda.

            “Alright. Give me the spyglass.”

            “What? It’s mine! I will use it. I’ve already insisted on this.”

            “Don’t be daft, Zelda. When the time actually comes to embark on this mission, _I_ will be leading, not you. I will need to be in possession of the spyglass. Why are you so reluctant to give it up, anyway?”

            She clutches it stubbornly to her chest. “ _I_ will be using the spyglass. I am _not_ giving it to you.”

            “ _Uuuuugggghhhhh,_ ” Link groans, throwing his head back and releasing his anger into the unfolding dawn. “Alright, fine. If that’s what will keep us moving forward, then fine.”

            “That’s more like it,” she says pleasantly, and raises the glass to her eye. She peers out over the sands with a stern expression.

            “You used to let me use the spyglass all the time,” Link recalls quietly. “I’d use it to sneak through castle corridors—and I could see if someone was about to come round the corner—nifty little device, that is. It never did let me see through your dress, though—”

            Zelda speeds up as he speaks, leaving him behind so that she rides alone, a good ten strides ahead of him.

            _So that’s how this is going to be,_ Link realizes, and falls into a thrall of silence.

…

            The sun springs high and hot into the sky. By noon, they’ve drawn close enough to the fortress that they can actually see its banners—bright, stark orange against the blue-flooded sky. The fortress is set deep into a valley, but it takes less than an hour of scouting to find a narrow passage that cuts between two bluffs. It is wide enough to only ride single-file—which isn’t much of an issue, considering that they’ve been doing that for some time now anyway—but they’ve only made it about a hundred feet when Zelda speaks up.

            “These bluffs,” she says, “can they be useful, somehow?”

            Link considers her words. “Yes,” he says carefully, “as long as we can be certain we won’t encounter archers.”

            He cranes his neck towards the sky, no more than a stripe of blue dividing the shadowy cliffs. They seem to tower upward forever.

            “Of course,” he adds, “we are still some ways from the fort. Perhaps we would benefit by setting up a camp here and awaiting a storm. They will provide enough cover before the sands hit, and the storm will give us enough obscurity to reach the temple doors.”

            “And a team of soldiers will be here to back you up,” Zelda points out, “should you encounter trouble.”

            “I won’t encounter trouble,” Link replies, unworried. Zelda pivots in her saddle and observes him coolly.

            “You seem so certain.”

            “I’m an expert.”

            “And suppose they have an opposing expert, equally capable?”

            Link is careful not to falter. “Perhaps they do.”

            She dwells on his words for some time. “Hm,” she finally remarks, and faces forward again. It is, Link admits to himself, one of the less hostile interactions they’ve had.

            Privately, though, Link can’t shake Paragrant’s warning. He thinks about the soldier’s words— _she’ll creep into your head—_ and, now that they’re alone and not at each other’s throats, he feels compelled to ask:

            “What’s it all about, anyway?”

            “What?”

            “This war we’re fighting,” he replies. Because Zelda is riding ahead of him, he can’t see her expression, and can only assume about her attitude.

            “I’ll answer you,” she says after some hesitation, “but before that—why do you ask?”

            _I need to know if you’re the madwoman Paragrant says you are._

“Curiosity.”

            “Is this about my men, and the mutiny you claim they desire?”

            “I’ll admit, that’s some of it.”

            “If they have any regard for their kingdom and its culture, they won’t follow through. I’ll prove myself to them, or die trying.”

            “You seem more at peace with it than you were last night.”

            She emits a short laugh. “Nothing seems as grave by the light of day.”

            Link has to admit to himself that the commander has a point.

            “Besides,” she says, “if I thought I were in the wrong, their uncertainty would bother me further. But I have no doubts that mine is a necessary campaign.”

            “I think ‘campaign’ is an understatement. Your men call it a holy war.”

            “It’s every bit the holy war they say it is, and more. But tell me—what do the men at Fort Courage say about the fighting?”

            “The men at Fort Courage are fresh out of training. Most of them have never seen battle. They’re civilians, like all the rest.”

            “Alright, then,” Zelda says, her dark hair swaying with the horse’s motion, “the civilians—tell me what they think.”

            “You really don’t know?”

            “One of the great tragedies of being royalty,” Zelda replies, “is that I’m rarely told the truth. Everybody tells me what I want to hear, except for… a select few.”

            “Kaepora,” Link identifies.

            “How intuitive of you.”

            “What did he say that was so different?”

            “I’ll tell you,” Zelda negotiates, “when you tell me what the civilians say.”

            “The civilians think it’s a foolish fight,” Link says easily. “They say religion’s no reason for a war, and wish you’d return to the castle and focus on domestic matters—slavery, for example. It’s archaic. There are many who want to see it ended.”

            She halted her horse again and turned around in her saddle, eyebrows raised. “I’ll have you know that I despise the slavery in Hyrule. It’s terrible—inhumane—and when this war’s over, ending it will be the first thing I do.”

            It takes Link only a moment to understand the deeper implication of her words. “Yet you’ll keep it instated as long as the fight continues, because without it, you couldn’t afford to feed, arm, and nurse your soldiers—is that correct?”

            Zelda remains entirely expressionless. “There are few decisions I’ve had to make more difficult than that one,” she says calmly. “You’d be wrong to assume I haven’t lost sleep over it.”

            “So you’ll just allow people to toil endlessly, never having known a day of freedom in their life, all for a war that nobody supports?”

            “And I will compensate them handsomely when this war is won, and I assume the throne in full,” she promises. “If you’d let me share my side of the story, perhaps you’d understand.”

            “By all means,” Link replies, a hint of doubt touching his voice.

            Zelda speaks softly as she tells her story, and Link gathers immediately that this is something she rarely shares. “It began about seven years ago, soon after—after you and I parted ways. I was the loneliest I’d ever been, and uncertain of my own destiny. That was when I met Kaepora.

            “I liked him immediately, for he seemed young and old all at once. I’ve never asked our age difference—Sheikah live much longer than Hylians, you know—but we became fast friends. My father had died a few years earlier, and of course you were gone, so I had nobody to turn to. Except for him.

            “He pledged fealty to me, as all of the Sheikah tribe do. Impa welcomed him warmly, being of the same background. They had known each other many years prior. While Impa’s devotion to me was to be expected, Kaepora… he exalted me, in a way I’d never known. And he called me by a title that he said had been lost to history, but had been bestowed upon the first Princess Zelda, many ages ago— _the_ _Hands of Hylia._

            “It meant, he explained, that a goddess’ blood flowed in me. That once, long ago, the royal bloodline had tied itself to a goddess named Hylia, the guardian of the Hylian race. Hylia was of a lesser status than the golden goddesses who created the world and left behind a holy relic to be used those who inhabited it.

            “When a threat faced her beloved Hylians and the goddess’ holy relic was Hylia’s only chance at victory, she shed her divinity and assumed a mortal body. She obtained the relic and defeated the threat. She was the first Zelda, and a third of the relic was passed to the many generations of Zeldas who followed her. That was the royal bloodline, and the relic—called the Triforce—was their gift.

            “With time, that legend—the legend of Zelda, as the Sheikah called it—became lost to history. Religious texts collected dust on our shelves. Until Kaepora warned me of an evil brewing in the desert— _this_ desert—a dark king named Ganondorf who intended to steal the Triforce for himself. Together, we poured over old religious volumes and found what I can only describe as a cycle. Ganondorf is an evil monster of a man, Link, with a devious history ages old. Like me, he descends from a god. A malicious one. With that kind of power, he can—and will—do terrible, terrible things to people who deserve a good and loving ruler—a ruler who will put their life on the line for them and fight a war they can’t possibly begin to understand…

            “Link… Kaepora opened my eyes to a destiny I’d never known awaited me. That relic is my birthright,” Zelda says now, her voice as impassioned as he’s ever heard it, “and I intend to claim it.”

            The story has stirred something in Link that he can’t identify, and he is rendered speechless. Zelda turns around one more time, her expression entirely sincere and intense.

            “Well,” she says, “I’ve told you all there is to know. I will see this fight through to the end—and yes, it means slavery, and yes, it means more lives lost—but that is _nothing_ compared to what lies in wait if we let Ganondorf win.” 

            They have reached the end of the narrow passage, and it gives way to the valley. The Spirit Temple awaits them on the other side.

            Remaining in the safety of the dark bluffs, the pair peers out at what awaits them.

            “Of course,” the commander adds softly, “you’re under no obligation to believe me.”

            Link doesn’t answer. Not yet. It’s as if the tale has awoken something within him—something that was sleeping—

            What’s impossible, but is undoubtedly the case, is that her story feels familiar, as if he’s heard it a thousand times before.

…

 

_In the silence of her chambers, which are dim and gray with afternoon light, she lies numbly on the bed and eyes the ceiling. She feels nothing—if anything, she feels quite okay._

_Loss, at first, is surreal. Denial steadies you. This, she recalls from her mother’s death. The belief that all will be okay. If she stands up, walks to her father’s study, she will find him sitting there in the chair, won’t she?_

_Well? Won’t she?_

_Many afternoons pass in this fashion. Still, she feels alright. The funeral comes and goes, a beautiful celebration of life, flowers all in bloom around a crisp white casket. Condolences all around, and little chirps and hints at an impending coronation—she will be queen, soon, after all…won’t she?_

_A week, then a month. And then the reality starts to set in._

_This, too, she remembers._

_At first she thinks she will be okay. That she won’t miss him. Impa keeps her promise to the princess’ parents—now deceased—to protect their daughter, to keep her on track. Zelda’s life doesn’t change, at first—she signs papers, and plays politics, and yes, there are talks of a coronation, but not for a long time—not while she’s still a girl._

_Then, Zelda passes a particularly exciting piece of legislation—one that her father fought for many years ago. Equal wages for all races—this, something that the king would have taken pride in—and Zelda excites, briefly, over telling him—and then remembers. Remembers that he did not live to see it, that cancer took him early._

_This is the moment when the reality becomes, well, real._

_It is like reaching for support but finding nothing to grasp onto. Her hand closes on empty air. And once grief sets a course, it accelerates—she is sieged by panic, by uncertainty, and most of all, by a devastating realization of true loss. Her father, whom she so loves—loved—gone forever, for all of eternity, vanished into obscurity, into dust—her father, her papa—did she love him enough? The panic turns into guilt; the guilt, into desperation._

_In her room, the hurt grips her. She bows under the weight of it. Sobs. Six months since the death of her papa, and only now does she cry, bitterly and deeply. If only there was some way back to him…_

_For the first time in many years, she remembers it._

_Her heart stutters—skips—stops?_

The spyglass.

_High up on a shelf, she finds it covered in dust and nearly forgotten._

            You should keep this spyglass, Zelda, because that way, you will always be able to find your way back to me, and we shall always be together again.

            _His words chime in her ears. Expanding the spyglass, she gapes eagerly through it—looks around frantically—but there is nothing out of the ordinary here, nothing but a few vanished walls and that’s it. Her father is nowhere to be found—and wasn’t she a fool for thinking a silly magic spyglass could bring back the dead?_

_Her heart stutters, and there are tears and tears and tears eroding thread-thin paths down her skin. He is gone, truly gone—he has left her—he said they’d always be together again, but now she is twice as alone as she was before, reaching for a hand where there is only empty air._

…

            They are on their way back to the camp when Link halts suddenly.

            “Do you hear that?” he asks. The hushed breath of the wind seems disturbed somehow—

            “AH!” he hears the commander screech, and he whirls around just in time to see a Gerudo scout come swirling out of seemingly nowhere, swift and weightless as the sands themselves. Zelda dodges a slice from the enemy blade and draws her own sword, reacting more quickly than Link, surprisingly, who is frozen, terrified, watching her—

            “WATCH OUT!” she screams. Pivoting, Link barely escapes a blow from a second Gerudo, and at the same time, a fiery arrow lands at his feet. _An archer,_ he registers, but, no—the arrows are coming too quickly— _archers,_ he realizes, _several of them._

It happens all too quickly, then—he, being the skilled professional that he is, cutting down the closest enemy, impaling her in that awful way, then wrenching the blade out again—mounting his horse—rushing in the direction of the archers, though the setting sun is strong and nearly blinds him…

            He draws his bow and stares into the fiery blaze, making out the smudged silhouettes of the archers. Time seems to slow down, as it always does when he’s holding the bow, and he recalls, suddenly, the woman Din who taught him to shoot a bull’s-eye; the woman Din he met so soon after breaking from Zelda; the woman Din who was fiery-haired, half-Gerudo, sultry, and spiritual; the woman Din who said she could heal him; the woman Din who never did.

            He shoots, and the first archer falls. The hellish rain of arrows now cut in half, he can focus more keenly on the second woman.

            He draws his bow and aims, but halts when he hears the distant archer shout:

            _“Traitor!”_

The voice is faint, yet the bow shakes in his hands. For a brief moment, he is frozen, he cannot shoot—yet the last archer falls anyway.

            Link lowers his bow and brings his horse to a halt, registering, suddenly, the silence. How…?

            “And you wanted me to stay at the camp,” the commander’s voice cuts in.

            Of course. _Zelda._

He turns just in time to see her slinging a bow across her back, marching towards him through the sand. Her shadow unfurls behind her, long and richly colored as it drapes across the dry earth. She is furious, and magnificent.

            “I didn’t know you were an archer,” Link remarks, aware of the ignorance in his voice.     

            “I am everything my men are, and more,” Zelda replies sternly. “Did you think I was made commander because of my crown?”

            Paragrant would say so, Link surmises. But seeing her now, feral as she is, he recognizes the burning heart of a warrior. He’ll be damned if the men at Fort Courage possess half of her spirit.

            “I see now that’s not the case,” he admits, dismounting. She does not move, icy and unaffected. He wonders if she even felt fear.

            “I refuse to be given anything I can rightfully earn,” Zelda says, and Link senses that the conversation is over. She turns from him and kneels over a slain foe, one of four. The carcass is already half-buried in the sunken sands, and Zelda remains expressionless as she searches the body with steady hands, digging through pouches for loot, inspecting weapons, combing away tangled red hair to examine the face...  
  
            "Do you recognize her?" Zelda asks shakily as she peels away the woman's sweat-soaked veil. A thin crust of blood coats the lips, but the rest of the face is unmarred, glistening and red.  
  
            "No," Link answers.  
  
            Zelda, grunting, rolls the body face-up. She closes the eyelids deftly.  
  
            "We have to bury her, you know," Link points out. “And the other four as well.”  
  
            "With what shovels?"  
  
            "The wind may have covered our footprints, but if the enemy finds the bodies, they'll know we were here," Link explains. "They'll tighten security. Better they don't know exactly what happened."  
  
            For the first time, Zelda grits her teeth. "This is bad."  
  
            "You're right, it is.” He is quickly growing anxious and impatient, and any good feeling from the afternoon is draining away. Feeling more irritable by the minute—especially with her—he snaps, “But we can't sit here and worry about it."  
  
            The commander can't disagree with that, so she follows the specialist over to the closest bluff, about a hundred yards off, with the body in tow. Searching takes a while; when finally they find a crag nestled deep into the wall of slate, daylight has already begun to drain away, leaving the far reaches of the cavern shadowy and undefined.  
  
            "This will have to do," Link insists, and they drag the corpse in. The interior of the cave is cool and dry, and it stretches farther than Link would have expected, deep into the bowels of the earth. They follow a narrow passage down into darkness and Zelda lights a lantern, a dull scarlet light that splashes against the walls and deepens the pigmented shadows.  
  
            When they have gone so far that they can no longer see the mouth of the cave, they settle the body in the ground and cover it with large, flat stones. Zelda says a prayer over the body. Embittered at the close call, Link keeps his mouth firmly shut.

            “Three to go,” she says softly after the prayer, and Link grunts halfheartedly in agreement.

            Recovering the remaining bodies takes all the daylight they have left, and when all four have been properly buried—and looted, but never mind that—night has fallen. At the mouth of the cave, Zelda gazes out into the open air hopelessly. "We'll never find our way back in this awful darkness," she laments, and draws back into the cavern. “Let’s make a fire. Camp. Sleep.”

            It’s not unexpected; they packed provisions for this. Fetching the horses and tying them up, Link unloads a bundle of firewood from the saddle. It takes all of the energy he has left, and in the darkness, the sour feeling that Zelda brings to him starts to return. He’s not sure whether she senses it, and tells himself to keep it together, if only to hold back from starting another argument.

            Her story of the goddess is still in his head. He hates its familiarity, because he doesn’t want to believe it. He realizes, with no surprise, that he _wants_ this to be some pointless war. The thought of dire consequences and genuine evil unsettles and upsets him. War can’t be moral, he tells himself. War is _never_ moral, and neither are soldiers. Yet she acts like that’s the case. She must be a fool, mustn’t she, to base this whole fight on _storybooks?_

            …And yet—her tale—it made his heart beat differently. _Why?_

His irritation with her grows, for better or for worse. It’s just as Paragrant warned— _she’s in my head,_ he thinks. _I have to fight this—I have to keep her out._

            Meanwhile, the commander’s thoughts are somewhere else entirely. By the last trickling rays of lantern light, Zelda observes the curvature of Link’s shoulders as he hunches over the fire pit. The landscape of his back is more pronounced in this light, the mountains, the craters, the deep trenches of the folding and flexing muscles here casting shadows, and there submerging beneath them. Watching him work, she feels a strong craving grip her, both familiar and exotic. The lines of his body have changed—even the way he moves, once so clumsy, yet strong, now turned deft, precise—dare she say, _serpentine?_ All of his movements having a clean edge to them, smooth, as a canoe cuts through still waters.

            What would it be like, to share his bed again? Seven years removed from the warm, hulking, yet awkward body she remembers?

            She forces herself to turn away. She cannot think this way. She cannot.

…

            By the fire, they speak but little.

            Zelda watches the wood burn, while Link remains in the periphery of her sight, dragging a dagger through the sand almost absentmindedly. The blade gleams in the firelight, casting slivers of light against the earth. His movement is graceful, and the blade flits delicately between his fingers. The reflected light, a little aurora, dances with the same elegance.

            Finally, after some time, Link breaks the silence.

            “So what’s your plan when this is all over?”

            The question catches her off guard. “To become queen, of course,” she replies. “What else?”

            Link has no answer for that.

            “What about you?” she presses. He seems to ponder the answer.

            “Well,” he begins, “I have… options.”

            “Such as?”

            He sighs. “At Fort Courage. They plan to promote me to captain.”

            “That’s a high honor,” Zelda remarks, impressed but not surprised.

            “I know.” He draws his legs up and crosses his arms over his knees, the dagger still dangling lazily from his left hand.

            “But you don’t want it,” she realizes.

            Link is pensive. Zelda awaits a reply, but doesn’t get one.

            “We should put another log on there.” He stands up with a grunt, sheathing the knife and tending the fire wordlessly, though his mind must be anything but quiet.

            The sight of him at work conjures something in her mind she never expected. “You were a farm boy, once,” she muses.

            “Yes.”

            “Was it hard labor?”

            “What do you think?”

            His spite hurts. She realizes now that while they got along all day, the heat of the desert and the harsh combat has exhausted him. His good humor is gone, and Zelda has little patience for this new moodiness.

            “It wouldn’t kill you to show me a little kindness,” she points out.

            “It’s come close before.”

            “What are you thinking about, to suddenly act this way?”

            He plops down in the sand beside her. “Nothing.”

            She can feel herself tensing up. “All day, we’ve worked well together. I thought things were improving between us—but it’s always going to be this way, isn’t it?” she finally realizes. “You and I, quarrelling like animals for the rest of our lives.”

            “What makes you think I’ll spend another minute with you when this is all over?” Link spits, and adds, viciously, “ _If_ we even survive.”

            “This is just what I mean, though—it’s like there’s this—this _abyss_ —between us, that we cannot cross”—

            “I’ll stay on my side, thanks. Mind your own.”       

            With every word, her heart beats faster, and with more aggravation.

            “You’d really want that? To never see, or hear, or think of me?”

            “I’d give anything to never think of you again.”

            She swallows nervously. _Stay calm,_ she tells herself. His hostility is so raw, so unexpected.

            “Is it something I said?” she asks.

            “No.”

            “Something I did.”

            “Yes.”

            “Today?”

            “Every day,” he replies. “Every _damn_ day, since the one I met you.” He stands up—paces away—and returns, sitting down again. Every hair on Zelda’s body stands on end.

            “We were something wonderful, once,” she says timidly. It’s just the thing to set him off.

            “When you cast me off, Zelda, I should have hated you with everything I had. But I didn’t. All I could think about was you, even as I left Hyrule behind, even when I crossed this godforsaken, blistering wasteland of a desert—” he grasps a fistful of sand and flings it into the fire—“ _gods,_ I would’ve done anything to see you again. Every woman I met was like your damn shadow. I haunted the brothels and felt nothing at all, until finally I’d had enough.”

            His tale infuriates her. “ _Brothels?_ And you scorned me about Kaepora.”

            “So it’s true about him,” Link determines, victory and bitterness puncturing the words in equal measure. “You shared his bed.”

            “ _Once,_ ” the commander answers coldly, “after many years of loneliness, and never again. But why should I defend it?” she adds, all of her rage building pressure under her skin, until she feels she’s about to burst. “You left me!”

            “ _I_ left _you?_ Oh, _Zelda,_ truly?! The last time I came to see you and was caught, you turned on me—you told the guards you’d never seen me before”—

            “—You’d been caught, Link! _What choice did I have?!”_

“—And then you told them I was a trespasser and a liar! Zelda, everything you promised me turned to dust in that moment—you gave it up, gave _me_ up—“

            “YOU GAVE ME UP FIRST!” she shrieks suddenly. She is vicious; she is feline; she is intense and poised to attack. “After months of nightly meetings, you disappeared without a word and I didn’t see you for weeks, because you _gave me up_ without the courtesy of an explanation—you left me in the dark— _wondering_ where you’d gone, what I’d said, what to do, alone and heartbroken in my bed at night and _shivering_ , shivering because I _always_ left the window open hoping that maybe tonight, maybe by some insane stroke of luck,  _you_ might come inside…”

            “And I did come inside! I came  _back!”_

“ _You came back too late!”_

“Because I thought I knew you better—I thought you would forgive me!” His chest heaves, begging for air. “Wasn’t that one of our promises? To always forgive each other?!"

            “YOU PROMISED NEVER TO LEAVE!” she screams, digging her fingers into the sand. “EVERYBODY LEFT ME—MY MOTHER AND FATHER, ALL THE FRIENDS AND LOVERS I EVER HAD—THEY ALWAYS LEFT!”Her voice echoes endlessly against the cavern walls and out into the night, but there is nobody around to hear, nobody within miles to sympathize. There is only Link, and the words seem to run right through him. “I thought you were different! But you were just like the rest!” She bows over, and her sobs are muffled. “You were no different. You left me, too.”

            That boiling rage has seeped free of her and now she is left empty and shaking. Her hands clench and unclench mechanically, and she looks up, right into his eyes. “I _loved_ you,” she chokes out, and shrinks away when he reaches for her. 

            “Don’t touch me. Just tell me why _.”_

            He is left cold and frozen in place, his hand still dangling in midair. Slowly, he drops it. “Zelda… there came a day when I realized that you expected me to either marry you, or watch you marry someone else. I didn't want to be cast aside, yet I’d known all along that I could never be your king.”

            A new gentleness has risen in his voice. It is the first time he has shown her any sympathy.

            “I was engaged to Malon. I had another life waiting for me. What you and I had, it was… always going to be temporary.”

            She doesn’t bow her head, doesn’t submit; instead, she lets her steely blue eyes bore into his. _He needs to know that this hurts._

“At night,” she utters, “you would hold me. In the dark, in my bed, you always whispered big, beautiful words. _Eternal_ and _soulmate_ and _fervently_ and _…”_ Her voice disappears into the night. 

            “They were just words, Zelda.”

            “So it was false.”

            “Not false… _never_ false. Zelda, you were… I mean, to me, you were… a whole world. But it all—it all was temporary. I said it already. It was temporary.”

            “You should have told me.”

            He swallows heavily. “I know,” he finally admits. The words are painful to speak.

            Silence follows for a long time, and the fire in the pit hisses and pops, the wood slowly crumbling to ashes.

            _Temporary,_ Zelda thinks again _,_ and imagines the flames, hours from now, smoldering out, their blessed warmth gone, their beautiful glow diminished. 

            _Does the wood forgive the fire for the damage it’s done,_ she wonders, _because of how wonderful it was when it burned?_

The conversation comes to a painful halt. For a quarter of an hour, she reflects, and beside her, Link draws characters in the sand with the dagger. He seems exhausted of her and of the whole ordeal; privately, so is she, and yet it seems like the anger that sickened her when they fought has now become diluted with remorse, and for the first time in her life, she considers the fact that maybe _she_ is the one that needs to be forgiven.

            Without speaking, she rolls her spyglass between her palms. She doesn’t remember when she started doing it, or even pulling the spyglass from her belt, but the slow, deliberate motion calms her, unsticking the gears of her mind and body, breathing energy into the chambers and valves of her beating heart.

            "Why do you always do that?" Link speaks up. His hand has stilled, and he waits earnestly for an answer. 

            Zelda doesn't feel ready to give one. 

            "Why do you ask?"

            "Oh, classic Zelda, answering questions with more questions."

            "That's not funny."

            "I ask," Link replies, giving in, "because when we were younger and you got nervous, you used to fidget and readjust your tiara, even though it was already perfectly balanced."

            "I never noticed that about myself," she breathes.

            "But you don't wear one anymore," he continues. "Why not?"

            Her face hardens. "Because I have not earned it."

            "Go on.”

            "If my people are not safe from threat," she explains, "then I am not truly their ruler... I refuse to claim responsibility for a kingdom— _queendom—_ I cannot protect." 

            When he doesn't answer, she looks up. His eyes are wide, and honest, and... _admiring?_

            "You care deeply for your people."

            "Wouldn't you?"

            "Out of obligation, maybe. Out of moral devotion, on ethical grounds, because I know I should. But not out of love. And you... you've never met them, but you truly love them. I can tell."

            Zelda hesitates. "I don't deserve them," she says slowly, "but I will."

            "They love you anyway."

            "Their love is misplaced."

            "Perhaps. Maybe mine was, too..."

            His reference to their love in the past tense stings like a whip, and the second she realizes that, her stomach churns achingly. So she is still in love with him, then, she realizes. After all this time, she cannot shake it, and her heart starts to beat frantically. To calm it, she clutches her spyglass tight, and her clenched hands, white, glaze over with sweat.

            "You're trembling," Link notices.

            "You always point everything out," she sighs. "You're like Impa."

            He laughs deeply, moving towards her as he speaks. "I promise you, I am very unlike Impa.” His voice has gone low.

            "But, still."

            "Yes, I point things out about you because if I don't notice then nobody will.”

            "You know me better than anybody else," she admits. "Even now."

            Still he is moving closer to her, gradually and magnetically, the pulsing heat of his body engulfing hers. She is quaking so badly she is surprised the sand around her does not shake too.

            “Link…?”

            He stops when only a few feet separate them. It seems to take everything in his power to hold himself back. “Zelda,” he says, echoing her. His voice is very, very quiet. “It’s only… after seven years of anger and shame and gods know what else—after everything—I really, truly think that all I want is—forgive me—to be close to you again.”

            A searing rush of excitement floods through her, but she immediately snuffs it out like a spark beneath her boot. His hand reaches for her—there is nothing experimental about it, nothing tentative—and with a pang in her chest she pulls away. It is like ripping off her own skin, and his expression falls, eyes wide. It is the expression of a wounded man.

            “No.” 

            “No?”

            “I know better than to let you in again.”

            “Truly?”

            No words come to her. She only stares at him, wide-eyed and trembling, her arms wrapped tight around her chest. The firelight casts deep violet shadows in the folds of her body, and she knows that Link wants her— _badly._

When she finally speaks, her tongue feels heavy, as if it wants to keep the words from getting out. “When you left”— her voice shakes, and she hates it—“I didn’t just lose you. I—I _splintered up,_ like a ship hitting the rocks, and half of me drifted away. When you left me, I felt like I'd lost everything except my body, and that body just kept on going—breathing and eating and bathing and sleeping and getting dressed in the morning and sitting on a throne—and it felt like… well, like that body was ruling a kingdom… but  _I_ wasn’t.” She stares frigidly into the black night, and doesn’t move a muscle. “It was the same feeling I got when my father died. I didn’t even feel sad, didn’t feel angry… I didn’t feel anything, until much, much later.” She fixes Link with that cold, pale gaze that sends a chill down his spine.

            She is holding on, against her better judgment, to hope. It is dashed to pieces when Link shakes his head.

            “You know I can’t promise you anything, Zelda. Even if I could, you wouldn't believe me." He draws himself up. "I've changed my mind, anyway."

            Something cracks painfully straight down the center of her heart, like it’s rupturing open. "Why?" she breathes. Just now, she is realizing how much she wanted to say _yes._

            "I'm more afraid of hurting you than I am of being hurt. Would you believe it? Even now.” He retreats beneath his blankets, facing away from the dying fire, and Zelda wants nothing more than to follow him, to wind her arms about his shoulders, to succumb to that carnal craving and _love him._

            “Goodnight, Commander.”

            She watches, shocked, as he falls asleep before her eyes. Rage and passion still boil within her.

            With all of her strength, she, too, lies down to rest.

            “Goodnight, Beast,” she whispers across the camp, but her words sift away with the sand.

 

…

 

_Creeping into your brain like Kaepora crept into hers…_

            This, Paragrant warned.

            Link awakens, and the sky is still dark. When was the last time he slept through a night? He can’t say for certain. Drawing a blanket across his shoulders, he exits the cave, casts his eyes across the sand. To the east, a thin line of pink teases twilight. Pink was always her color—and how could he forget that, when he obsessed over her?

            No. _Obsesses._

            He _obsesses,_ even now, over her—she never leaves his mind. Never, even when there were other women: first Malon, whom law forbid to him; then Din, who loved him, so he had to leave—and the others, many of them half-Gerudo, with caramel-colored skin and dark lashes, who teased him for his clumsiness, his boyish manners, who sculpted him into someone finer, who taught him what it meant to seduce and to be seduced in turn…

            Through all of that, did he ever truly forget the lovely, lily-white princess, dark-haired, small-mouthed, heavenly-soft? The way she circled her arms around him from the back—no other woman had done that. Not even Din, who had loved him.

            _Creeping into your brain, like Kaepora crept into hers…_

So, then, does she love the captured Sheikah? She has not said, will not say. That she shared his bed is no indication of her feelings, Link reasons (while acknowledging a wave of jealousy), but if she does think of the lost soldier so frequently, and is risking everything to save him, then it must be so. If not romantically, then in some other way. She must love him. She _does_ love him. This is a fact.

            And besides, Link thinks, perhaps in some attempt to convince himself, he’s not here for her. He’s here to build a profile. Here to do the job he was hired for—and then return to Fort Courage, be promoted—a deep sickness takes him.

            _Promotion._ They admire him so that they would make him the captain, bow to him, revere him. Follow him to victory, or death. Or both. And to think that he had come to them as an outlaw, a beggar, returned from many years abroad…

            There is no pardoning an exiled man unless he joins the military. This is how things are. But he had the experience of a traveler who had been abroad many years, who had lived in enemy territory and had intimate knowledge of the people there. Of their customs, their rituals—their wars. They had been eager to take him on, promising as he was. And he had quickly moved up the ranks. _Very_ quickly.

            When he returned to Hyrule—and this is a thought he has refused, until now, to confront—had it been with Zelda in mind? When those years of hardship and exile proved too difficult, and he ended up at a recruiter’s doorstep, saying he’d lost his purpose—would they please reunite him with it, and pardon him for his crimes—had this been, even subconsciously, with the hope of laying eyes once more on the princess who’d exiled him in the first place?

            A hot wind gusts against him, and he unravels the blanket from his shoulders, tucking it snugly beneath one arm. He thinks of Zelda asleep in the cave, and of the sensational urges that overcame him last night— _gods,_ but he wanted her. _Gods._

Returning, now, to the cave, he packs his things silently. It doesn’t take long enough; Zelda is still asleep, and he has no way to pass the time. Watching her sleep does nothing to calm him; if anything, it increases his unease. He wants to resent her for her fierce rejection last night, for her harsh words—hurtful, menacing. And really, truly _felt._

            Yet he can’t. Instead of resentment, all he feels is an urge to reach out and touch her, perhaps hold her hand, or stroke a lock of hair. Hold her. Warm her.

            _Protect her?_

            Disgusted with himself, he launches again to his feet and strides again into the open desert, where the sun has finally risen and a liquid-like red light spills over cliff sides, pushing violet shadows towards the crevices of the earth.

            He tries, fruitlessly, to think about the mission. Fails. Then, tries to think of Fort Courage—but that fails, too, as he thinks about the future that awaits him there: becoming captain, taking control. Unlike Zelda, he is not meant to be a leader. He would bear no love for his soldiers like she does, and would toss them as unsentimentally into battle as grain to the wind. A necessary sacrifice for a calculated victory. He knows soldiers, and there are too many he would not worry to preserve—and yet more that he would wickedly wish to die. Zelda, while questionable in her religious motives, at least treasures the men who follow her and acknowledges their loyalty. Mourns their injuries and deaths. Is she an effective leader? Debatable. But she is a passionate one.

            As for Link? He cannot imagine what it is to love like that. He has often heard it said that the bond between soldiers is the strongest there is, but for him, there is no such thing as love on the battlefield.

…

            Daylight has a way of making a midnight drama seem petty. Perhaps this is evolutionary—the sun rises, and so it is time to survive. In the daylight, we can see—we can identify the poison berries by their color, and the boar in the woods can’t hide quite so well—in the daylight, we can build shelter; in the daylight, we can, and we _do,_ work. In the daylight, we are in motion, and to stop and ponder love and betrayal and what-once-was wouldn’t only be _unproductive,_ it would go against our very nature; for this, Link is thankful.

            When Zelda rises, she says nothing of the night before. A voice so recently impassioned with hurt and desire is used only to give directions: Clean this up. Scout the path. Follow me. Army commander, indeed.

            They return to camp by noon. All is exactly as they left it, and Impa meets them at the edge of camp. _She’s been waiting for us,_ Link assumes. The iron-like woman is all business.

            “Come inside. Let’s discuss.”

            In Zelda’s quarters, the council collects and rolls out a map. Paragrant, across the table from Link, eyes him keenly. _He wants to know what I’m thinking,_ Link realizes. _Wants to know whether Zelda’s crept into my mind, as he forewarned._

            Well? Has she?  _Zelda: princess, goddess, Hands of Hylia. A holy relic and a war that means more than we can possibly comprehend._

            The commander is explaining everything—the narrow passage, the scouts they encountered, the buried bodies—and then she turns it over to Link, who explains his plan—a small party can await a sandstorm between the bluffs without being spotted; from there, Zelda, Link, and a few others will proceed forward, using the spyglass to see through the sands, which will get them as far as the Spirit Temple; from here, they allow Link to take over—drawing up diagrams of the fortress as he recalls it, he will sneak in, locate Kaepora, extract the Sheikah soldier, only calling in the rest of his party and those by the bluffs if he needs backup—

            “Though I strongly doubt it,” he promises. “If all goes to plan, I will be the only one who sets foot in the fortress.”

            And that, he promises, is that.

            Paragrant seems unconvinced. “This is really your plan?” he murmurs. “It is all reliant on chance—if it’s a sandstorm you need, then we must be ready to go at a moment’s notice. Who will be in the party? Who will remain here, to protect the camp? Is all of this trivial?”

            Link is remarkably unnerved by Paragrant’s rapid shift to suspicion. _Does he not trust me?_ It’s the first that Link has had to consider of this—until now, it was Zelda that Paragrant didn’t trust.

            What has changed?  
  
            He notices, too, Gus—quietly, yet unmistakably, eyeing Link with trained precision, a narrowness to the lids that suggests wariness.

            Do they think him a fraud? An imposter? Another thought strikes him— _Do they know my history with Zelda?_

No, that’s impossible, unless she told… and she wouldn’t tell. She wouldn’t have had him exiled, denied ever knowing him, if she was eventually going to tell— _would she?_

But then, he realizes, his eyes returning to her, to her chilled concentration, to her calculated manners, all of her bound together, tight, stiff, determined—does he know her, really? Does he know her as she is now? It’s been seven years.

            Maybe he’s not the only one who’s really changed.

            He’s realizing now that he’d somehow, subconsciously, willed her to freeze in time—to remain how he remembered her, lovely, beautiful—vainly so—passionate, romantic, and brazenly expressive of it all. Most of all, he wanted to believe that she still was terribly in love with him, regretting casting him away so heartlessly—and even now, he wants to believe that he never hurt her or caused any pain himself.

            He wants to believe that it wasn’t his fault. But now, looking at her—truly—seeing the way she’s been bitterly warped, wrung out—twisted, like a rag over a basin of water, drained of all that erotic vigor that he loved, all that he remembered, all that he coveted, he’s left realizing that what he did—and what he’s doing now—

            It’s irreversible.

           

…

            And so they prepare. A party of half a dozen is gathered and they return to the passage to set up camp, instructed to be ready at a moment’s notice to embark through the storm, towards the temple and Kaepora. Commander Zelda and the Creeping Beast are at the vanguard. Their weapons are stocked, their horses saddled. In the shadow of the bluffs, they wait. All they need is a storm.

            Two days pass—two mornings, two afternoons, two nights hushed with suspense. Then, it happens. The company is ready. The sun rises. The sands begin to stir.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thank you so much for the love you've shown this story so far, it means the world to me. I hope you've enjoyed this update and are just as amped as I am for part 3. :)


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